


Ain't No Grave (Can Keep My Body Down)

by spitandvinegar



Series: Ain't No Grave [2]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, Catholic Steve Rogers, Drug Abuse, Homelessness, Identity Issues, Jewish Bucky Barnes, M/M, Masturbation, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, POV Alternating, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Past Rape/Non-con, Period Typical Attitudes, Pinkberry, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, a coupla goddamn kids, because I am a desert pony that runs as wild and free as the wind, original kid characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-04-28 14:51:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 107,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5094785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spitandvinegar/pseuds/spitandvinegar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's six in the morning, and Steve is heading out on a run when he nearly trips over a bouquet of sunflowers on the front steps of his brownstone. </p><p>For a second paranoia takes over, and he kicks the flowers a little, waiting for them to explode. They don't. They also came with a card, which he picks up. The front of the card has a tasteful picture of the Brooklyn bridge at sunset. It's very nice and sedate, like the kind of card you would buy to give to your boss. On the inside someone has written a short message in big, shaky block letters.</p><p>I AM SORRY FOR SHOOTING YOU.</p><p>Steve sits down hard on the steps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Revelation John

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Ain't No Grave (Can Keep My Body Down)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8640775) by [Milkandhoney11](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milkandhoney11/pseuds/Milkandhoney11)



> Warning: this story involves a lot of difficult subjects, including drug abuse and some fairly graphic violence, and mentions child abuse and sexual assault. It also brushes on racism, homophobia, antisemitism etc., and discusses religion. Please take care of yourselves and mind the tags.
> 
> Thank you very much for reading!

It is buried in the damp earth. Leaves have fallen on its back. It swam through the water and dragged out the Captain and ran through the forest and now it lies buried. It waits.

It has died a thousand times before, and always it rises.

It feels the tight knitting skin. The crackle of growing bone. 

It is not a perfect specimen. It does not emerge unscarred from the ashes. Its skin is like a well-used butcher's block. But always it rises. It dies and then it rises.

It thinks that it has been alive since before death was invented. It thinks that it remembers a time before it fell.

On the fifth day it stands. It runs its tongue over its teeth. It checks its weapons, rubs a speck of rust off of a blade.

It remembers a deep voice, a dim room, the sound of cars on a street outside, someone coughing. A cold tent. The bulk of a massive body. The voice a whisper. 

“You awake, Buck?”

Silence. Steady breaths.

“Holy father, let this rosary be for the benefit of James Buchanan Barnes.” 

The soft rattle of the beads. _Descendit ad inferos_. He descended into hell. _Inde venturus est judicare vivos et mortuos_. He will come again to judge the living and the dead.

It smiles.

 

*****

 

In 1925, when Steve was seven, he won an illustrated children's book of saints for memorizing more Bible verses than anyone else in his Sunday school class (Bucky had helped, running his finger down the page as Steve recited the Book of Job). It was the most beautiful thing he had ever owned, with real full-color illustrations and everything. Steve wasn't so sure about the colors, but Buck said they were swell, so that was all right. He and Bucky spent hours looking at it, lying on their bellies on Steve's floor where it was warm near the stove, turning the pages real careful so they wouldn't rip. 

Buck liked the gory stories the best. They were like the horror comics he wasn't supposed to have. “It says that she was broken on the wheel. Do you think that means they tie you to a wheel and then just drive off somewhere? Until all of your bones are all broken?”

“Yeah, maybe,” said Steve, and Bucky grinned all over his face, showing the one rabbity tooth that hadn't fallen out yet. Buck never knew nothing about God or the Bible or anything, and Steve sometimes thought that Buck felt a little funny about that, so he was real glad whenever he got anything about it right. Buck's ma never took him to mass on Sundays because she was a Jew, and his daddy never took him because he was just an ordinary drunk like most everybody's old man (except for Steve's, who was a hero, and dead) and didn't care much about church one way or another, so Buck just never went. And he never did any Jewish stuff either, whatever that was, because his daddy didn't like it, so Buck didn't have any kind of God at all, not even the Jew kind. Steve thought that maybe Buck worried a little sometimes about burning down below for all eternity. Other times he just seemed glad that he didn't have to put on a jacket and sit in a pew on sunny Sunday mornings. 

Steve worried about Bucky going to h-e-l-l _all_ the time, not just some of the time, so he said an extra rosary every night for Buck. “This one's from James B. Barnes, Lord,” he would say. “He doesn't know how to do it right, so I'm just helping him.” He thought God might be understanding about it, maybe.

So anyhow, Buck liked the gory stories, and Steve liked the pictures. Him and Buck would spend a long time picking their favorites. It was kind of a game, and the rules were like this: you had to look at all of the pictures really carefully, even though you already knew what they looked like and which ones you liked best. You had to really think hard about how the colors and the shapes looked and everything, and maybe flip back and forth between two different pictures to compare them and decide which one was better. Then you picked your favorite one, which was always the same. Bucky liked the picture of Saint Francis, because he looked friendly and had a lot of animals, including a really neat looking dog with a curly tail. Steve liked the picture of Saint Sebastian.

He wasn't really sure why. It was just the kind of picture that made him want to look and keep looking. It was different than most of the other pictures. Most of them had the saints looking kinda organized, standing up with a staff and a halo and full-color robes like maybe they were about to teach a class. The picture of Saint Sebastian was darker, like it was of the night time, so the full color didn't matter so much. He was tied to a tree, and he didn't have a shirt on so you could see all of his muscles, and the heathens had shot him full of arrows. He had dark curly hair and light eyes, and his mouth was the same color as his dripping blood.

Steve liked to look at the picture, was all. He wasn't really sure why.

 

*****

 

Alisha is sitting at her desk not doing her homework. She's daydreaming instead, staring out the window with her earbuds in, thinking about her prom dress. She's cracked the window a bit to catch the breeze – the air conditioner's broken again – and the street below is quiet. There are a few guys she knows hanging out on the stoop of number 283. Jesus and Pablo and – Luis? Some cousin. She doesn't remember his name. He's older, and an asshole, but he's fine as hell, so she smiles at him sometimes and she can tell he likes it. He looks really good right now, with how the sun is coming down a little and lighting his face up. He's smoking a cigarette. 

It takes her a second to notice the guy coming down the street, which is weird, because he's a seriously creepy looking dude. A white guy, but _really white_ , like a vampire or something, with greasy-looking brown hair hanging down into his face. He's wearing all black, down to his black combat boots, and black leather gloves even though it's still pretty hot out for September. It would be lame, like the goth kids at school who Alisha always feels kind of embarrassed for, but the way this guy is walking is _crazy_. Like something off of the Discovery channel. He stalks down the street like he's a lion or something, right past the guys on the stoop. Then he hits some random spot, pivots on his heel and kind of flows right up the steps to the nearest building, and then suddenly he's got a gun in each hand and he _kicks the fucking door in_.

She hears shots, and runs into the hallway just as she hears her mom yell “They shooting out there? Alisha, stay away from the windows!”

“Yeah, mom, I know,” she snaps back. The street is quiet for a minute, maybe two. Then she hears a voice, a big, clear tenor voice, a church-choir kind of voice. She creeps back over to the window and sees the white guy again, walking back down the street the same way he came, with a couple of full garbage bags slung over his shoulders. He's singing. 

_Well who's that writin'? John the Revelator_  
_Who's that writin'? John the Revelator_  
_Who's that writin'? John the Revelator_  
_A book of the seven seals._  


“What the fuck?” Alisha says.

Then another guy comes sprinting out of the building the white guy broke into, and he's holding a gun, and Alisha doesn't really have time to think before he shoots. The white guy turns before the other guy is even out of the door, and he puts up his hand in a gesture like “stop,” and there's a loud _clang_. The white guy grins, and tosses the bullet onto the ground. “Bad idea, sweetheart,” he calls out, and then there's another shot and the other guy goes down screaming, shot right through the knee. 

The white guy turns again, and keeps walking. 

_Tell me what's John writin'? Ask the Revelator_  
_What's John writin'? Ask the Revelator_  
_What's John writin'? Ask the Revelator_  
_A book of the seven seals._

***** 

Coulson barely gets through the first thirty seconds of his presentation before Stark starts running his mouth. He looks terrible – hung over, Steve figures – wearing his sunglasses indoors and sucking down coffee like it's the only thing between him and an early grave. Even his dumb Balbo beard looks kind of bedraggled. “A stick-up man? Seriously? That's seriously what you've called us in for? Hey, let's start handing out parking tickets too, why not, give the boys in blue a break. Cap can work vice. Whaddya say, Uncle Sam? Thigh highs and fishnets sound OK?”

“Nope,” Steve says immediately. “If I'm doing vice I'm dressing up sharp and letting congressmen take me out for steaks.”

Everyone sitting around the conference table turns to stare at him. Stark narrows his eyes, and Steve holds his gaze, trying for his most blandly earnest Captain America look. “You've put some thought into this, Cap?”

“Well,” Steve says. “Me and Buck both worked three jobs through most of '38 so neither of us had to end up giving two-dollar blowjobs down by the navy yard. I guess I'm in the habit of coming up with contingency plans.”

“Wait, so now you're telling me what, that your contingency plan for if the whole Captain America thing doesn't work out is high-end hooker?”

That wasn't exactly what he meant, but he decides not to tell Stark. “I think that the term is _escort_ ,” Steve says, and Stark's eyes go wide. Steve manages to hold it together until he hears Sam snorting at the other end of the table, at which point he brings a hand up to his mouth to muffle his sniggering. 

“Ha!” Clint says. “You just got Cap-punked!” He holds his fist out, and Steve gives him a pound, which has the excellent side effect of making Stark sputter.

“Barton! Did you teach Cap how to fist bump? You can't teach national icons to fist bump! It's against, I don't know, the Geneva conventions or something!”

“Gee, do you think so?” Steve says, all wide-eyed. “I figured that if it's good enough for President Obama, then gosh, it must be good enough for me.” 

Sam cackles, and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “ _Captain asshole_.” Even Natasha looks amused. Coulson, predictably, does not, though he's maybe struggling with it a little around the corners of his mouth. 

“If you're finished,” he says, and returns to his briefing. “The reason that I've called you all here is that what we're dealing with isn't an ordinary stick-up man. The dealer he decided to target is this guy,” he says, clicking his laptop so that a mugshot appears on the holographic display. “Robert Keller. He's not the sort of guy that most people would want to mess with, currently a person of interest in multiple open homicides. Our person of interest apparently walked up his street in broad daylight, kicked his door down, and walked out again with over three thousand dollars in cash, a few weapons, and all of Mr. Keller's heroin. According to witnesses, Mr. Keller ran after him and shot at him, and our guy caught the bullet in his hand, shot Mr. Keller in the kneecap, and walked away singing a gospel song. According to Ms. Alisha Jones, a sixteen year old who lives a few doors down and across the street from Mr. Keller, our guy is, I quote, 'a scary motherfucker, but he's got a pretty nice voice.'”

“Huh,” says Clint, which Steve thinks is a pretty reasonable reaction.

Coulson clicks to the next slide, which shows a building that looks like it's been shelled. “A few days after the robbery, at 4:13 AM, a bodega exploded in Hoboken. Our intelligence had suggested that it was the cover for a small Hydra cell, and current investigations are backing that up. The owner of a bakery on the same block says that he saw a guy leaving the scene who matched the descriptions given by witnesses of the Keller robbery. Since then there's been three more attacks on Hydra in Connecticut and Jersey, a stick-up in the Bronx, and a would-be rapist who got his head kicked in in Queens. All the same guy. We've also got some homeless veterans saying that someone called the Revelator has been bringing them food and blankets.”

“Shit,” Sam says. “I heard that the other day. One of the guys at the Harlem VA. I just figured he'd been hallucinating.”

“Revelator?” says Steve. There's something about that word that reminds him of something.

“Yeah, that's what we're hearing. Apparently it's from the song that the guy's always singing.”

“John the Revelator,” Steve says, and he can hear it in his head: a man's menacing growl, a woman's high, wavering response. “Blind Willie Johnson.”

It takes him a second to notice that everyone is staring at him. He feels the corner of his mouth curl up. “What, you don't understand that reference?”

Natasha raises her eyebrows. “Enlighten us.”

He feels suddenly abashed. He honestly doesn't usually mean to act like a jerk, except for when he's busting Stark's chops, but sometimes it just feels too good to hold back on, that mouthy little kid he used to be trying to get a few licks in. “It was – well, back then they called them race records. It wasn't popular, nothing you'd hear on the radio. But Buck was a big fan of the blues, and he had this, uh, friend up in Harlem who he'd borrow records from.” Steve thinks that Frankie – or Joe, or whatever the guy's real name was – and Buck were probably more along the lines of what people today would call _fuck buddies_ than regular friends, but he's not about to mention that. At the time Steve'd been so jealous of the guy he could spit, which was one of the reasons he'd hated that record so much. “I remember that song, John the Revelator. Buck borrowed a record player from a friend and played it over and over, nearly drove me crazy. It's about John the Apostle, the Book of Revelation. Judgment day and all that. Buck always liked that kind of thing; I guess it was kinda exotic for him, with him not being a Christian and all, and us never having gone further south than Jersey.”

He breaks off, flushing: he tries to be good about never telling old-man stories, but it had been ages since he'd thought about that. Buck smoking on the fire escape, his undershirt damp with sweat, that damn song playing in the front room.

And of course, now everyone is staring at him even harder. Stark in particular looks like he's been sort of revitalized. “Not a Christian? So what, Captain America's a socialist and Bucky Barnes was an atheist? ”

Steve winces. Stark's never going to let him forget about the socialist thing, even though things had been different then: a guy could be registered a Socialist (He still thinks that Norman Thomas would've made a heck of a president, even if he'd been dead wrong about the war) and still vote for Mayor LaGuardia. “Buck's ma was Jewish. He was, uh, pretty embarrassed about it. It didn't make things too easy for him around the neighborhood, when we were kids, so when we were older he worked pretty hard to keep it a secret.” 

Those had always been their worst fights, the ones they got into when someone went after Buck for being a Jew. Usually Bucky was the same happy-go-lucky guy even when he was splitting his knuckles on someone's teeth, but Steve remembered one time when some guy called Buck a kike, and Bucky got him down on the ground and hit him until he stopped fighting back and started making scary bubbling noises, while Buck hissed “ _call me that again, motherfucker, you cocksucking son of a bitch, call me that again_ – ” 

Steve had to drag him off the guy, and Bucky staggered a bit when he stood, his face white as paste, his bloody hands shaking.

Steve winces again at the memory, and shoots an apologetic look at Phil. “Sorry, Coulson,” he says. “You were saying?”

The director's looking at him oddly. “It's interesting that you mention that it's a song that Sergeant Barnes knew.” That weird look gets sharper, and he clicks to the next slide. “This is a sketch of our guy, based on eyewitness descriptions.”

A tall, lean guy. A thickly stubbled face, and a fall of dark hair. A black long-sleeved shirt. Black glove on the left hand.

“Buck,” Steve says, and he thinks he might throw up. He thinks he might go diving right through the plate glass window and fall thirty stories and hit the ground running.

At the same instant Natasha says “The Soldier.”

 

*****

 

There's a thing that Steve does that he'll never let anyone find out about.

Whenever he goes to visit Peggy he pulls her into a hug, presses his face into her neck, and breathes in. She still smells almost the same. She smells like warm skin, French soap, and Vol de Nuit. She smells almost, but not exactly, like a kiss in 1945. For a second he can imagine that he's gone home.

That isn't the thing that no one can find out about.

The thing, the pathetic, embarrassing thing that he does sometimes and no one can ever, ever know about, is this: he goes home straight from the gym, and he doesn't shower straight away. He takes off his shoes and puts on a warm, thick sweater. He puts on a record. Ella Fitzgerald, maybe, or Billie Holiday. He goes into his underwear drawer and gets out the pack of Lucky Strikes that he bought and he pulls out one cigarette. He doesn't really smoke it, just takes enough drags to keep it from going out, so that his living room fills with the smoke. He drinks a bad, cheap beer, and maybe spills a little onto the floor or onto the sweater. He lies down on the couch and closes his eyes. Warm sweat, Lucky Strikes, cheap beer. Jazz on the radio. 

Sometimes he reads for a while, Faulkner or something like that, but he never touches his laptop. He turns off his phone. He gives himself an hour or so to let himself pretend. 

That isn't the worst part.

He doesn't wash the sweater. He takes it to bed with him. He holds it while he's falling asleep. He lets himself imagine a warm body lying next to him, a scratchy voice talking to him, a big hand rubbing between his shoulder blades to ease his breathing. Fresh sweat, cheap beer, way too many Luckies. Sometimes a girl's cheap perfume. Once some other guy's cologne. Brylcreem. Dunhill. A shot of whiskey. Toothpaste and engine oil. (That damn hunk of junk Buck was always working on whenever he had a day off, _as soon as I get it running I'll drive us straight to California, Steve, and you can finally meet your girl Marlene_ , even though both of them knew that the thing was never going to run.)

That isn't the worst part.

Sometimes he puts that sweater up to his face and thinks about the muscles of a strong back still wet from the shower, about a grinning mouth trying to close around a cigarette, about big, steady hands on his own small body. He thinks about being fifteen years old and touching his best friend's dick in the back room of his ma's rat-trap apartment. He jerks himself off and comes with his best friend's name in his throat and threatening to make it past his lips. 

It gets worse. 

When he was twenty years old Steve touched his best friend's mouth and said "If you want to – you know. Like when we were kids. We could do that again some time, if you want." 

He said that, and Bucky took a quick step backwards and said “Come on, Steve. We're not kids anymore.”

Steve never asked him again. Never mentioned it again. Buck hadn't either. He had never treated Steve any differently afterward either, and Steve had been painfully grateful for that. He thinks that Bucky believed for a while that the serum had cured him of it, had straightened out his urges along with his spine.

It gets worse than that. 

There was one time in Austria: one time a few days before the train when they were both cold and wound-up and desperate, and they shoved their hands down each other's pants and did it as quickly as they could, Bucky burying his face in Steve's shoulder, Steve biting down on the inside of his own forearm to muffle his moans. When they were done Buck shoved him away and hissed “Never again, do you fucking hear me, Steve? We're not fucking doing this again.” 

Steve had _screamed_ over that, after the train, howled over it like a hurt dog. Bucky's hands, touching him. His voice, _never again_. His face, falling.

This is the worst part:

Lately, when he jerks off, he thinks about the same things that he always has, but he thinks about other stuff too. He thinks about a fall of dark hair, a hard, brutal body, a metal fist driving into his face. He thinks about a mask and black combat gear. He thinks about glazed-over black-rimmed eyes. He thinks about Bucky however he is, however he can get him, because he would take it. He would take it.

God help him, he'll take whatever he can get. 

 

*****

 

The creature has been thinking about offerings.  
These are the things that it knows:

1\. It is a undying, deathless creature.  
2\. It is an evil creature. It brings death in its wake, and no mortal man can stand against it.  
3\. It was once the asset of its masters, but now it is free. It is no longer an asset, but is clearly also not a human being.  
4\. Its masters told it to kill the man on the bridge (The Captain, Steven Grant Rogers, Alias: Captain America) to bring about the new world.  
5\. The Captain would not fight the creature. He bore good tidings.  
6\. It knew the Captain before it fell. The Captain, therefore, is also undying.  
7\. The creature has, somehow, been allowed to stay on the earth.  
8\. It does not want to fall again. It doesn't know fear. But. It doesn't want to return. It doesn't want to descend.  
9\. It wants to see the Captain again, because the Captain thinks that the creature is his friend, James Buchanan Barnes. It does not want to see the Captain again, because the Captain thinks that the creature is his friend, James Buchanan Barnes.  
10\. It would like to give the Captain a gift.

 

It has been thinking about what type of offering it could bring to the Captain, what sort of gift he might accept. It is thinking about this as it climbs up the wall of the condemned building and in through the window. 

One of the people inside says “ _Oh my fucking God!_ John, check your right arm!”

It doesn't need to check its right arm. It remembers who this shrieking person is. It says “Hello, Mikey.”

Mikey says “Oh my _God_ , John, couldn't you just, like, take the stairs?” He flops back down onto his blankets.

“The stairs are inefficient,” says the creature. “And. Structurally unsound.”

“Wait, what?” says Lily. She is painting her nails. Lily is very dedicated to hygiene and beautification procedures. “Are the stairs going to collapse?”

The creature considers. “Risk of collapse is not imminent.”

Lily's eyebrows shoot up. “Unclear usage of word: imminent.”

The creature likes Lily. She is highly intelligent. After only three weeks of cohabitation she has successfully adapted to the creature's standard communication protocols. In return, it attempts to emulate human speech. “Not before. I've found us a new squat.”

Lily nods at this, satisfied, and returns to painting her nails. The creature goes to its own corner, where it keeps its blanket and its knapsack. The knapsack contains its notebook, its cash, its heroin, and its rig. It can already feel the tremors starting in its right hand. It doses itself, then lies down on its bedroll to listen to music on its phone for exactly 15 minutes. The phone, which was previously the property of a man who stood unwisely close to the creature on the subway, came pre-filled with music. The creature has recently developed an appreciation for someone named _Tupac_ , with whom it feels as if it has some shared life experiences, and whose picture it enjoys looking at while it lies on its blanket. In the picture Tupac has well-defined pectoral muscles and extremely long eyelashes. The creature finds that it has very strong feelings about these features. 

The feelings are positive. 

When the fifteen minutes have elapsed, the creature sits up. It needs to focus on its mission. It needs additional intelligence.

“Lily,” it says. “I need. Help.”

It often finds speaking very tiring.

Lily says “What do you need help with? Are you OK?”

It says “Functional,” then adds “Thank you.” An inexplicable voice in its head says _About time you remembered your goddamn manners_.

Irrelevant.

It says “I need a gift. For someone. But I don't know. What is correct.”

Mikey pops up from his blankets. “Oh my God, John! Who are you buying presents for? Is it a _girl_?”

Mikey is even more tiring than speaking. 

“No,” it says. “A man.”

Mikey makes a very high pitched sound. It is a terrible sound. Lily looks at Mikey with the same sort of expression that the creature hopes is on its own face. It is an expression that says “Stop making that sound before I stop it with all necessary force.”

The sound stops. Lily looks at the creature and smiles. “Well, what kind of stuff does he like?”

“Insufficient intelligence.”

“Oh. Well, how did you meet?”

_Pulled him out of a trashcan after I showed Willy McArthur what I thought of him picking on a little runt of a kid like that, not that Steve had the good sense to be grateful for the help –_

“I shot him.”

“Oh,” Lily says. Mikey begins to make another terrible sound, but stops when Lily turns her head. Then she says “So, it's like, an apology gift? For, um, shooting him?”

The creature considers for a moment. “Yes.”

“Well,” Lily says. “I guess the present will have to be expensive.”

Accurate. 

“Like, diamonds? If he was a girl I would say totally diamonds. I mean, that's what _I'd_ want if you shot _me_.”

Inaccurate. 

“If I shot you. You would be dead. You wouldn't want anything.”

“Well, like, _OK, John_ ,” Lily says. “ _Anyway_. Are you sure you don't know anything at all about what he likes?”

“He likes – ” 

_Your name is James Buchanan Barnes_ – 

“Me,” it says. “He likes. Me. He said. He said I'm with you. To the end of the line.”

“Oh my God,” Mikey says. “John. _John_. That's _so_ romantic, _oh my fucking God_.”

Lily says “Was this before or after you shot him?”

Lily is highly intelligent.

“After,” it says. “He's an idiot.”

Cognition error. Insufficient intelligence.

 _Listen, chipped-beef-for-brains, you don't need any intelligence to tell that Steve's a goddamn moron. Punk's got the survival instincts of a half-eaten can of Spam._

Lily narrows her eyes. “Are you sure you didn't know him before the whole shooting thing went down?”

“Cognition error,” it says, and goes to lie down.

It allows itself another ten minutes of music. 

_From the cradle to the grave, since a little bitty child  
I've been known to get ill and kinda buck wild_

Accurate.

“John?” Lily says.

The creature says “Yeah?”

“You know, while you're still deciding what to get him, maybe some flowers or something? And, like, a card? An I'm sorry for shooting you card?”

_I don't think they sell those at the at the drugstore, sweetheart._

Accurate.

***** 

It's six in the morning, and Steve is heading out on a run when he nearly trips over a bouquet of sunflowers on the front steps of his brownstone. 

For a second paranoia takes over, and he kicks the flowers a little, waiting for them to explode. They don't. They also came with a card, which he picks up. The front of the card has a tasteful picture of the Brooklyn bridge at sunset. It's very nice and sedate, like the kind of card you would buy to give to your boss. On the inside someone has written a short message in big, shaky block letters.

I AM SORRY FOR SHOOTING YOU.

Steve sits down hard on the steps.

Later, after his run, he tries to paint. He's been trying to paint for weeks now, bought the oils and canvas and brushes and everything thinking it would be nice to take up again: he hadn't painted since his last art class before the war. But the easel had just stayed blank, criticizing him every time he walked into his own living room.

Now, though, he paints. Something from his childhood, he thinks, something that he just remembered. It starts out as a reproduction, almost, but soon he can see the changes creeping in.

He starts walking around the city. Stark is monitoring security cameras, running facial recognition, but Steve needs to be on the ground. He takes a bag with him with some supplies in it: a first aid kid, some energy bars, a few bottles of water, a warm sweatshirt, a wad of cash. It was originally meant for when he found Buck, but he ends up giving a lot of it away to the people he talks to, and having to refill it every night.

The first few homeless folks he asks have never heard of a guy called the Revelator, or have heard about him but say they've never seen him. One morning, though, Steve walks up to a guy who's cadging for change outside of a Starbucks. He's a mangy looking guy, older, with a scraggly beard and a ski cap pulled down over dirty looking hair. He's wearing dog tags, and the sight of them hits Steve right in the chest. He remembers how Buck's right hand had shaken during the war whenever he wasn't holding his rifle. He remembers the wild, blank look in the Winter Soldier's eyes. _This could've been Buck_ , he thinks. _This could be Buck right now._

He crouches down in front of the guy and pushes a twenty into his can of change. The guy says “Whoa, hey, thanks, man!” Then he says “You're fucking Captain America!”

Steve remembers Morita's voice then, mumbling to Dugan one time when a green recruit bust out with that same line. “Nah, kid, this is Captain fucking America. _Sergeant Barnes_ is fucking Captain America.” It had taken all of Steve's strength not to blurt out something like “In Captain America's fucking _dreams_.”

He says “I'm just a vet like you, sir.” Then he says “I was wondering if you could help me. I'm looking for a guy, about six feet tall, long hair, always wears a glove on his left hand. I've heard that people are calling him the Revelator.”

The guy, who had just been smiling, now looks wary. “You're going after John? Is he in some kind of trouble?”

“What? No, sir, I'm just looking for him. He's my friend. I was hoping that if I could find him I might be able to convince him to come stay with me instead of – wherever he's staying right now. You call him John?”

The guy looks fairly mollified. “Yeah, that's what we all call him. He's Revelation John, you know?” He casts Steve a suspicious look. “So if you're friends with the guy what do you need to ask me about him for?”

“I don't think he remembers me very well right now. He's – he's a little confused.”

“Yeah, shit, I know about that. Guess all of the dope can't be helping, the poor kid.”

Steve just stares at him. “Pardon?”

“Wait, you didn't know about that? Whew, boy. Sorry to break the news. Your friend's a _serious_ junkie, Cap. I saw him shoot up a few times, and I'm not sure how the kid's even still _alive_.”

“Oh,” Steve says. He feels himself clenching his fists. “Thank you for telling me. Do you know where I might try looking for him?” _Do you know where I might start ripping this city apart brick by miserable brick until I find him and drag him home with me and never let him out of my sight again for the duration of my unnaturally long life?_

“Not sure if I can help you much, Cap. The guy isn't too chatty about his personal business. He pauses. “I mean, it's a long shot, but we got talking a while back when it was starting to get cold, and I asked him if he was sleeping OK. And he said yeah, when it gets cold out sometimes he'll ride the Q or the D all night, and then get off in the morning and go look at the water. He must have meant on Coney Island, right? The Q goes down there.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “It does. Thanks a lot, sir. You've been a big help.” He pauses, then adds “If you see him, could you let him know that I'm looking for him? Tell him that Steve's looking for him. Tell him I'm not mad at him, that I just miss – ” He stops. Takes a breath. “Thanks again,” he says, and hurries off before he can embarrass himself any worse.

So that's how he turns into a ghost who haunts Stillwell Avenue on cold nights just before dawn, hoping that another ghost might join him. No ghost does, but he keeps on going, and he prays. 

Buck used to tease him about how he was born in the wrong era. “You shoulda been a knight,” he would say. “Jousting with black knights and winning the maiden fair and all that jazz.” Steve kind of agrees that he would have been good in the middle ages, but not at the jousting. He would've been a pilgrim. He wants to be one now. He wants to prostrate himself all the way down the Way of Saint James. He wants to wear a hair shirt. He wants to find a way to pray harder, hard enough that he can feel it in his muscles, hard enough to reach that calm feeling of Grace that he always touched so easily before Bucky fell. Now, when he prays, all that he feels is rising panic that God isn't listening. 

He's kneeling in the little Catholic church that's the closest there is to his apartment. It's an ugly, modern building, and he hates it, and he feels guilty for hating it. He's on his fourth rosary. 

“ _Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus_ – ” he breaks off when he notices the priest sitting in the pew next to him. He's not sure how long he's been there for. He ducks his head a little, which sends a rush of dizziness through him. “Father.”

“No, please, don't let me disturb you,” says the priest. 

“I think I should probably sit down,” Steve says, and does, wincing at another wave of lightheadedness. It occurs to him that he hasn't eaten all day, and the sun has long since set.

“You're been here for a long time,” the priest says. “I don't think He'll mind if you rest a little. You know, I don't often see people your age praying the rosary, especially not in Latin.”

“I'm older than I look, Father,” Steve says, and the priest takes a look at him and gives a very small double-take. Then he smiles.

“I suppose that you are.” He pauses. “Is there anything in particular that's troubling you?”

“Yes,” Steve says. “I've already confessed about it. But it's the same thing again and again, and I don't think – I don't think I can stop. I don't think I want to.”

The priest's smile widens. “I don't imagine it could be anything too terrible, from you.”

“I'm in love with another man,” Steve says.

There's a silence.

The priest says “Our pope would say that if you're searching for the lord and have good will, who is he to judge?”

Steve swallows. “I believe in miracles, Father. I – I guess that what I am is a miracle. And I thought that God had granted me another. The man – James. I thought he was dead. Then I saw him alive again. But it wasn't – it wasn't a miracle. Horrible things happened to him. He's alive because he's been trapped in hell this whole time. He barely even knows me now. He's suffered so much, and all I can think about is how much I – ” He looks down at his hands folded in his lap, the faded black of his rosary beads where they're draped over his knuckles. “I'm afraid for him, Father. I'm scared out of my mind.”

“And you feel responsible for him. For protecting him and for praying on his behalf.”

Steve just nods.

“Well,” the priest says. “I meet a lot of very troubled people, in my work, and I have to say that I can't think of a single one of them who wouldn't have benefited from having such a faithful champion. But it seems like a very big burden for just one person to carry. So if you don't mind, I'd like to ask our congregation to keep James in their prayers this week.” 

Steve bites his lip so that it won't shake. “I – thank you. Thank you so much, Father.” 

“You're welcome,” the priest says, and stands up. “Go home and get some rest, Captain Rogers.”

Steve goes home, but he doesn't rest. He paints, instead. Works on what he's been working on since he found those flowers on his stoop.

It's a triptych. In the center there's Buck how he looked just before he shipped out, movie-star handsome in his crisp new uniform, his hat cocked to the side. He's at Coney Island, the Wonder Wheel lit up in a gleaming circle behind his head. He's holding an arrow in his left hand.

On the left he's how Steve found him at Azzano. Strapped to a gurney, pierced with needles. Suffering. He paints him shirtless, his dog tags resting on his chest, his hair a little too long. The blood and bruises stand out dark against his skin.

To the right he paints the Winter Soldier, stripped to the waist in his tac pants and black combat boots. He's seen the files that Hydra kept on him, on what they did to him. He paints him restrained in that horrible chair, blood leaking from the healing bullet holes in his chest, his skin greyish white under the glaring florescent lights of the room. He paints the metal arm and the terrible scars that connect it to his body, scars that he spent hours staring at when they found that file and those pictures of Buck laid out like a corpse on a dissection table. He paints Buck's expression as it is in the photos of him in that chair just before they switched it on: staring straight out at the viewer with a look of dull, baffled defiance, his muscles clenching against the restraints, the fingers of the metal arm flexing.

At two AM he grabs a fountain pen and writes over the paint at the very bottom right of the center panel in his best script. _Saint Sebastian_ , he writes. _Patron of soldiers._

He leaves, then, and goes to ride the subway.

He runs into Bucky just before the sun rises.


	2. Hit 'em Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve emotes at Bucky. Bucky takes a bath. A Coupla Goddamn Kids come to an erroneous conclusion. A Hydra medical officer has a very, very bad day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: at the end of this chapter Bucky very violently loses his chill on a male Hydra mook and his female boss (because Hydra is proud to be an equal-opportunity employer), who are both unarmed non-combatants. Also, this chapter is obnoxiously long.

As soon as Bucky sees Steve he bolts.

Seeing as Bucky is what he is, when he bolts he sprints out of the station and straight up the side of a nearby building, with Steve scrambling doggedly after him as he starts jumping from roof to roof. Buck stumbles slightly after one particularly impossible leap, which gives Steve just enough time to grab onto his wrist. “Buck, please – ”

Bucky jerks away and keeps running. Steve doesn't bother chasing him any longer. He knows from experience that he won't be able to catch up now that Buck's gotten a head start.

Besides, he already got the tracker attached to Buck's hoodie.

Steve spends the next hour or so staring at his phone, watching the little green Bucky-dot make its paranoid zig-zagging way back up through Manhattan and then into the Bronx. He's waiting on line for a bodega coffee when the phone chirps at him. The target has been stationary for over five minutes. In Longwood, of all places: not a neghborhood with any associations to Steve, except for a vague sense that it isn't particularly nice. But the second his phone squawks at him again with the address he's moving, heading back underground to the train. 

The place Buck's staying is an old residential building with boarded-over windows and an UNSAFE AREA, DO NOT ENTER OR OCCUPY sign on the front door. He circles around the back, and finds one window that's had the plywood ripped down. It opens easily, and he crawls through, feeling weirdly giddy. Somehow breaking into a regular condemned building makes him more nervous than busting down the door of a Hydra base ever did: he's half-expecting a nun to show up and smack his palm with a ruler. 

The ground floor looks completely abandoned – what used to be someone's living room has a big white mushroom growing out of the wall – so he heads up the stairs, which creak irritably under his weight. He goes through the door to the right of the landing, and barely has a chance to glance around – he's in a dark studio apartment that would be uncomfortably cramped if it had any furniture in it – when suddenly there's a knife at his throat.

He goes as still as he can, and raises his hands slightly to show that he isn't armed. No normal human being would've been able to get the drop on him like that, so he isn't too worried. "Hey, Buck," he says. "Did I startle you?"

They're pressed so close that Steve can feel the heat of him against his back, smell his sour body. Bucky speaks then, his breath warm against Steve's ear. "What are you?"

Steve hadn't expected that. He licks his lips. "I'm - I'm just me, Buck. Steve. You know me."

"I knew. Steve. He was my -" he breaks off. Buck's voice is scratchy as hell, and there's something off about his intonation, like English isn't his first language. "He died. He's. Steve. He's dead."

Steve wants to hug him so bad that it hurts. He wants to cry. He wants to say "I was your what? What was I to you?" Instead, he just says "I didn't really die, Buck. I was just - frozen."

There's a silence. Then Buck says "No. No. They didn't have you." He pulls the knife away and turns Steve roughly around, grips him with both hands to the sides of his face. His stubble has grown out into a full, messy beard, and his eyes are too bright in the frame of the bruised-looking circles around them. They dart around Steve's face, never quite making eye contact. His breath is pretty awful. "You look. like him," he says. "Like Steve. Why. Why do you look like him."

"Because I _am_ Steve," Steve says, as gently as he can. "You gotta believe me, Buck."

"I'm not," Bucky says. "Him. Bucky." His hands drop to his sides.

"Yeah? Who are you, then?"

"I don't - " he pauses. "A creature. A thing that fell."

Steve swallows. "You remember falling?"

"I remember. I was with - you? And I fell. _Descendit ad inferos_ ," he says, and something stirs at the back of Steve's brain, a suspicion of where Buck's poor scrambled head has taken him. "They took Bucky out of the body. Took him out. Put me in." His eyes flicker over Steve's face again. "Are you. Gabriel?"

"Oh, Buck," Steve says, and his voice cracks.

"You were with. Michael. With the wings."

 

Steve almost smiles, because there's something kind of sweet and reasonable about that, Buck looking at Sam and seeing Holy Michael. "No, buddy. I'm just Steve. That was my friend Sam, with the wings. He's just a regular guy too. And you're not - you're not some kind of devil, Buck, or whatever you think you are." He's suddenly grateful that Thor hadn't shown up to help out when Bucky was wreaking havok: that would've been tough to explain.

Buck reaches to touch Steve's cheek with his right hand. The tremor he had in the war is back, but worse now, obvious even if you're not looking for it. Steve lets him touch, doesn't move a muscle. 

Bucky jerks away as if Steve's skin has a current running through it, pivots on his heel, and walks over to a corner of the dark room where Steve thinks he's been sleeping: there's an army blanket spread out neatly on the ground, and a small black knapsack. There's two other similarly occupied corners in the room, one with a pile of library books and a shoebox full of nail polish bottles next to an air mattress, and one with a purple sleeping bag surrounded by messy stacks of fashion magazines. It looks like Buck is living with two women, and for a second Steve feels intensely, absurdly jealous.

Buck sits on the blanket, opens up his knapsack, and pulls out a black plastic bag, then arranges the contents in a row in front of him: a box of alcohol wipes, a bag of cotton balls, a lighter, the cut-off bottom of a coke can, a syringe, and a little packet with the Nike logo and the words “JUST DO IT” printed on it. Someone's idea of a joke, he guesses: Steve doesn't find it particularly funny. "What are you doing, Buck?"

Bucky glances up at him, and says "shooting up." Then he does exactly that, with crisp, practiced motions that Steve watches with a combination of horror and fascination. Bucky reaches for his belt, and Steve thinks that maybe he's going to use it to tie off his arm, but instead he hauls down his pants right in front of Steve, completely unconcerned with his own modesty, and before Steve can yell at him to stop – because _Christ_ , that's dangerous, Steve's seen guys bleed out in seconds from injuries to the groin – he injects straight into his femoral vein.

Almost the instant he does his whole body relaxes, and he gives a soft, animal grunt of pleasure, his mouth gone slack, his fingers stroking at the blanket under him. The tremor is gone.

After a minute or so he sort of shakes himself, buttons himself up, puts all of his gear back into his bag, and leans back onto his elbows with a soft little sigh. Then he looks up at Steve again. For one awful moment he looks at him like he did on the helicarrier: with pure, baffled rage. Then his expression clears. "Stevie?" He says. "Christ, is that really you, or am I just seeing shit again?"

His speech is slow and a little slurred, but unmistakably _his_ in a way it hasn't been a single time so far in this century. Steve goes down on his knees next to him on the army blanket, grabs Buck's single human hand in both of his own.

"Hey, Buck. Yeah, it's really me."

"That's what a fuckin' hallucination _would_ say," Buck says, dry as leftover toast. Steve laughs a little.

"It's really you too, huh, Buck?"

Buck's expression fogs over slightly, his eyebrows drawing together in the dull, puzzled look that Steve recognizes from his files. He says "Cognition error." Then he says "Steve. Steven Grant Rogers, alias Captain America."

"That's me," Steve says. "James Buchanan Barnes, alias Bucky."

Buck laughs. It's a hoarse little bark of a thing, but it's a real laugh, and Steve goes a little dizzy with it for a second. "Alias _Winter Soldier_ , jackass."

Steve laughs too, startled, and Buck shoots him a little sidelong look. "Or. Last name, Asset. First name, The."

"Codename Bucky?" Steve suggests. Buck snorts.

"Accurate."

Steve's grinning like an idiot, because it's _Bucky_ , it really is, cracking jokes even though he can barely talk. He's still watching Steve sidelong right now, as if Steve's some kind of wild animal that might bolt if he looks at it head-on. Steve rubs Buck's knuckles a little with his thumb. "Hey, Buck. You can look at me, if you want. It's ok."

Bucky immediately turns his face toward Steve, but his eyes slide off somewhere to the left of Steve's forehead. Steve frowns, and speaks as gently as he can. "Can you look me in the eye?"

Bucky looks him straight in the eye, and holds his gaze for a moment before he grunts softly and snaps his eyes down. Steve swallows.

"You, uh, can't, huh?"

"Accurate."

"Why?"

"P-p-p-protocol." It takes him a lot of effort to get the word out.

"Eye contact is against protocol."

"Yes."

"What happens if you do it anyway?"

"P-p-p-pain increases until f-f-f-function is compromised."

Buck had dragged Steve out of a river with a dislocated shoulder. Steve doesn't really want to think about what kind of pain would compromise his ability to function. "Ok," he says. "Ok." He rubs Bucky's knuckles some more.

"Captain."

Steve says "You can call me Steve." Then he says “Thank you for the flowers, by the way. I liked them a lot.”

Bucky says “Acknowledged,” and his head jerks hard to the right. Then he says "I want."

"What do you want?"

"I want you to. To." He draws in a deep breath. "Your arm. On me."

Steve puts one arm carefully around his shoulders. "Like this?"

"Oh," Bucky says. "Oh." He presses more closely against Steve's side. Then he says "Shit, if this is me going crazier then it ain't so bad."

Steve nearly gives himself whiplash turning to look at him. " _Buck_?"

Buck gives him a little salute. "Asset comma The, codename Bucky, reporting for duty. Thought we'd already finished with exchanging names, champ."

"You, uh." He licks his lips. "You didn't sound so much like yourself, just now."

"Th-th-th-the b-b-b-b-brain," Buck says, and then huffs out an exasperated breath. His head jerks again. "M-m-m-m-memory. Language. Hallucinations. P-p-paranoid d-d-d-d-d-d--" he stops, and takes a deep breath. " _Delusions_. Interm-m-m-mittant m-malfunction."

"Oh," Steve says.

"D-don't think about it too hard, slugger. Wouldn't want you to h-h-hurt yourself." He fishes around in his knapsack and pulls out a battered composition notebook and a pencil, and writes something onto a page near the back. Then he says "the s-s-stammer doesn't happen too often. Think you make me n-n-nervous."

"Sorry," Steve says.

"不是你的错," Bucky says.

Steve stares at him. "What?"

"怎么了？” Bucky says. "Oh, for _fuck's_ sake." He smacks the side of his head with his hand. "F- _fuck_."

"Buck -- " Steve starts, but now Bucky is staring intently at something to Steve's immediate left. 

"Do you. See that man."

Steve looks, then pulls in a steadying breath. "There's no one there, Buck."

"Acknowledged," Bucky says. "Hallucination." The tic happens again, the jerk of his head harder this time, so hard that Steve wonders if it's painful. Buck doesn't seem to notice it. "Are you sure. That you're not. A hallucination?"

"Yeah, Buck. I'm real." He can feel a sob clawing at his throat.

 

"Good," Buck says. He opens his notebook and holds it out to Steve. "Write it down."

Steve blinks, and takes the notebook, glancing down at the page Bucky's opened it to. Buck's written the date at the top, and below there's a few entries in those familiar shaky block letters. Steve imagines Buck laboring over that card for him with that awful tremor in his hand, and kind of wants to cry.

\- subway  
\- pursued by Captain. Tail shaken. Hallucination?

There's a few lines in Cyrillic then, followed by an entry in Bucky's old narrow copperplate, which must be the one that Buck just made.

\- threatened Steve with knife. Shot up. Talked to Steve. Pain in my ass, probably not a hallucination.

Steve smiles, and says "hold on a second, Buck." Then he draws a quick little cartoon of a monkey in a star-spangled uniform clinging desperately to a pissed-off looking Bucky's metal arm. He captions it "Always a pain in your ass, definitely not a hallucination. SGR."

He shows it to Bucky, who grins, a big happy grin that makes Steve feel for a second like his arrhythmia's come back. "Accurate."

"Yeah, I thought so too."

"Monkey's too good-looking, though."

"Hey!"

Steve's stomach gives a loud gurgle then. Buck gives it a betrayed look. "You're hungry."

"Yeah," Steve says. "I haven't eaten for a while." Almost 24 hours, at this point.

"Why. Why would you not eat." 

And Buck's mad as hell, now: Steve recognizes that look he's being given, that _Steven Grant Rogers I swear to Christ you're turning me grey before my fuckin' time_ look.

Steve has never quite managed to replicate that particular Bucky expression. The best he can do is a "Captain America is _Very_ Disappointed in You" look, which he directs toward Buck now. "And when was the last time _you_ ate a square meal?"

"Food is p-p-p-problematic," Buck mumbles, all petulant.

"Yeah, ok, champ. Think if I take you out for breakfast that'll be too problematic for you?" 

Buck says "Jackass."

Steve says "Accurate." 

They walk to a nearby diner. Buck's stammering and ticcing get worse on the way over, the stutter so bad that he stops talking completely. When they get to the diner Bucky hunches in the red vinyl booth and starts fiddling with his hair as the waitress comes over to take their drink order. The waitress shoots him a nasty look, then sees Steve and smiles. "Can I get you boys some coffee?"

Steve says "Yes, please," and slips Bucky a comb under the table when she turns to leave, murmuring "You can clean up a little in the bathroom, if you want."

Buck takes the comb and leaves, his face very blank. The waitress comes by with their coffee after a minute, and coos "it's so _sweet_ of you to buy food for him."

Buck slips back into the booth then, the tight look on his face showing that he overheard. He's washed his face and combed his beard, and tied his hair up into a bun. He's also switched his dirty hoodie for a cleaner version that he must have fished out of his knapsack. Just that nominal improvement in his hygiene has transformed him from "definitely a junkie bum" to "possibly a junkie bum, possibly a graduate philosophy student at Columbia." Steve reaches for his hand across the table and smiles up at the waitress. "Could we have a minute with the menus?"

She leaves, looking mortified. Buck looks down at their clasped hands, then up at Steve, and raises his eyebrows. Steve shrugs. "She was being a jerk."

Buck snorts. 

They look at the menus. Bucky points at what he wants. Steve frowns. "Oatmeal? You sure?"  
Buck nods. He points at bacon and eggs and mimes vomiting. Steve swallows. "Oh, Buck. How long has that been going on?" Bucky shrugs, then holds up one finger, tilts his head back and opens his mouth wide. He's missing a few of his back teeth. Steve stares. "What happened?"

"P-p-p-punishment. N-not c-c-compliant," Buck says. 

“But – that doesn't make any sense. I gotta eat 6,000 calories a day if I want to keep going in combat. You've gotta be about the same, right? How did you _eat_?”

Buck taps his nose with one finger, his face expressionless. “Tube.”

Steve says “Oh, _Jesus_ , Buck.”

Bucky says “Accurate.”

Steve grabs his hand again and pushes the sleeve up a little. Registers the track marks. Circles Bucky's wrist with his hand and winces at how much his fingers overlap. Buck has also written something on his arm which ends with the words “kill them,” but Steve doesn't want to investigate that too closely just now. "Come home with me," he says, just as the waitress turns up again. Now she's looking at them like they're the tragic queer love story of the century, which, well. 

He gives her their orders, and once she leaves again he looks back to Bucky. "Hey, just - come home with me today, ok? I'm not saying you gotta move in or anything, just come home with me for a bit. Use my shower, if you want. Shave, if you want. Take a nap or something, I've got a really swell couch."

"B-b-b-bath," Buck says.

Steve smiles. "A bath? Yeah, ok. I got a bathtub, too."

"M-m-m-moneybags," Buck says, and gives Steve a little grin.

Their food arrives. Steve ordered a big breakfast for himself, toast and sausage and bacon and hashbrowns and a three-egg omelet, and Buck stares at it mournfully while he works methodically through his oatmeal. Steve frowns a little, then says “Does ice cream make you sick?

Bucky's eyebrows pull together. “Insufficient intelligence.”

Steve hesitates for a second. Then he says “You used to love strawberry milkshakes. Think you want to give one a try?” He knows for sure that Buck needs more food right now than a damn bowl of oatmeal, and you don't need teeth for a milkshake.

Buck says “What is. A milkshake.”

Steve says “Well, that's it, I'm ordering you one. If you hate it feel free to throw it straight at my head.”

Bucky nods. “Acknowledged.”

Steve considers asking for two straws with the milkshake, just to mess with the waitress some more, but decides against it on the grounds that the instant he acts like a jerk in public about seventeen people immediately drop down from the ceiling with their phones pointed in his direction. It's some kind of serum side effect, he swears. Anyway, the milkshake is a hit: when Buck first tastes it his eyes go wide, and then he's sucking it down like it's some sort of magical nectar of Asgard. Steve can't stop smiling, even while he's cautioning him to slow down. “You'll make yourself sick, Buck.”

“Innaccurate,” Buck says. “No immediate digestive effects will be experienced.”

“And, uh, less immediate effects?”

“Probability high,” Bucky says darkly. “Food is _highly_ problematic.”

“Yeah, I'm getting the idea,” Steve says, feeling a little sick himself.

Steve pays the check, leaves a nice tip because he'll feel guilty if he doesn't, and then bundles Buck into a cab, because if he's going to have his balls busted for being rich he might as well enjoy the benefits. Buck presses up against his side a little during the ride, and if he smells a little riper in the confines of the car then Steve won't be the one to mention it. Instead he just cracks a window and rubs Buck's knee with his hand until Bucky sighs and settles in even closer. 

Then they get to Steve's apartment, and Bucky's already in the door before Steve remembers the tryptich.

Bucky is frozen in front of it, staring, transfixed by the image in the central panel. “J-james Buchanan B-b-b-barnes,” he says.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “That's you, Buck. Just before you shipped out.”

“Me,” Buck says, pointing to the panel on the right, the one of himself as the Soldier. “That's. Me.”

Steve says “They're all you.”

Bucky keeps looking between the center and right panels. The left, the one of him at Azzano, he can't seem to handle at all: he glances at it once and goes grey, then looks away. After a moment he puts a hand to his face. “I should. Shave?” He scowls a little. “Gonna be a real pain in the ass.”

Steve smiles at him. “I've got a beard trimmer. We'll get you fixed up, don't worry.”

He shows Buck where everything is in the bathroom. “Shampoo and stuff is in the shower, razors above the sink, towels in the cupboard over here. You can leave your clothes in the hall and I'll put them in the wash for you. I'll put down some clean stuff for you for when you're done.”

“Acknowledged,” Buck says, and starts stripping.

“Oh, geez,” Steve says, and stumbles out of the bathroom, but not before he gets a good look at Bucky's body: how the scars aren't restricted to his shoulder but litter the whole of him like spots on a dog, how his ribs stand out in hard lines, how his stomach is a little distended just from having eaten some oatmeal and a milkshake.

Seeing him in person also forces him to notice something else: Buck used to have a lot of hair on his chest, and now he doesn't. It's somehow worse, in a way, than the scars. It's so _inexplicable_ , like how long they kept his hair. There couldn't be any _tactical_ reason for it, so it was what? Aesthetic? They grew his hair out long but did something to get rid of all of the hair on his chest. Why? So that he'd be – pretty? Softer, more feminine looking? Not something you would want for an assasin, a killing machine. Not unless Hydra's asset had had _other functions_ , and God, Steve's going to be sick. They'd knocked his teeth out. Why would they knock his teeth out? What sort of _function_ does that imply?

The water in the bathroom stops running. Steve hears the slosh of water, and a soft moan. He squeezes his hands into fists. There could be other explanations. A lot of Buck's scars look surgical: they would have had to shave him before surgery. Permanently removing his body hair might have been a practicality, in that sense. It's not any better, really, the thought of them treating him like a toolbox, opening him up and rearranging the contents at will, but it's at least an explanation that implies some kind of rationale beyond pure evil. The teeth, too, could have been a means of control: the less capable he was of feeding himself the more dependent he would have been on Hydra's maintenance. The hair, though, that damn long hair: Steve can't make any sense of it, and he has to see Buck, has to see him, has to see that he's alive and breathing and that no one's hurting him, so he pokes his head into the bathroom and says “Hey, pal, are you doing OK in there?”

Buck's lying down in the tub with his eyes closed, looking thin and frail, his knobbly knees sticking up out of the water. He says “Functional.” Then he says “I ain't about to drown in here, Steve.”

Steve backs out, then goes to put Bucky's clothes in the wash and find something for him to change into. He leaves a pair of sweats, a plain t-shirt, boxers and a pair of tube socks outside the bathroom door, then slips more socks and underwear into Bucky's knapsack, along with a box of granola bars and some wet wipes. Then he sits down on the couch with his sketchbook and draws a picture of the Captain America monkey frantically shoving a huge pile of bananas at Bucky, who looks deeply unimpressed. He captions it _Sorry for fussing: you know I can't help it. SGR._ Then he writes his address, email, and cell phone numbers down under the drawing and slips that into the knapsack too.

He settles down with a book, but instead of reading he just listens to Bucky splashing around. After a while the tub starts draining and he hears the buzz of the beard trimmer. He has to remind himself to leave Buck alone, that he's been sleeping rough for months now and can take care of himself just fine. He picks up his book. _In Cold Blood_. He likes it so far, and feels vaguely apologetic to Mr. Capote for not giving it the attention it deserves. After a while he gives up and goes to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, then to his bedroom to dig up that pack of Luckies. He brings the cigarettes and two mugs of coffee back out to the living room, and settles back in to pretending to read his book.

He knows that his head jerks up too fast when he hears the door open. Bucky barks out a laugh at the sight of it, and wiggles his metal fingers at him. “Miss me?”

“A little,” Steve allows, not bothering to pretend that he isn't staring. Bucky doesn't look _good_ , exactly – he's too pale and skinny and hollow-eyed to look like anything but a junkie, especially with the visible marks all over his right arm – but that damn beard is gone, and Steve can see his face again, which is still _his_ even with the long hair and the caved-in cheeks. Steve hadn't noticed it so much, before, or just assumed that it was from being so thin, but now he can see how Buck's cheekbones are standing out more than they used to because of his missing teeth.

Buck seems to notice where he's looking, and touches his own cheek. “My face. It's. S-sorry.”

“Geez, don't _apologize_ , Buck. There's nothing for you to be sorry about.” He tries a little smile. “You know, Marlene had to pay to get that done.”

Buck laughs again. “So now that me'n Marlene have something in common do I got a shot at becoming Mrs. S. G. Rogers?”

“Depends on how well you can sing _Ich bin die fesche Lola_ ,” Steve tells him, trying not to look too excited over how _normal_ Buck just sounded. He pats the couch next to him. “Want to come sit? I fixed you a cup of coffee. Should be the way you like it, enough sugar that you'll probably lose the rest of your teeth.”

“Accurate,” Bucky says, and pads on over. “Wait.” He goes into his knapsack and pulls out an iPhone, which Steve hopes was acquired non-violently. Buck points the phone at him and says “Smile.”

When he's done taking the picture he sits down right next to Steve, cuddling up a little like he did in the cab. It's a lot nicer now that he's had a bath. Steve says “What was that for?”

“To help. Remember.” He shows Steve the picture on his phone. It's a surprsingly good shot of him: Steve's smile in pictures usually looks much more pained. He thinks maybe they should always just have Bucky standing behind the camera, like how they have a puppet to wave around when they take studio portraits of babies.

After a bit Bucky notices the Luckies. “You. Don't smoke.”

Steve blushes a little. “These, uh, they're for you, if you want them. You used to smoke Luckies, but they're pretty hard to find, now. Do you still smoke?”

“Negative,” Bucky says. “Cigarettes. Are expensive.”

“And what, heroin's free?”

“Accurate.”

Steve says “Oh. Right. I forgot about your, uh, robberies.”

“ _Stick-ups_ ,” Bucky says. “Not robberies.” Steve isn't sure that there's a real difference, but apparantly it matters to Buck, who picks up the pack of cigarettes and starts tapping it absently into the palm of his hand. The gesture is so achingly familiar that it makes Steve's mouth go dry. Buck had always been a real fidgety kid, always bouncing around and chewing on pencils and stuff, and he'd started smoking when he was still a teenager, because, he said, “if I'm smoking I've got something to do with my mouth that isn't talkin' shit and something to do with my hands that isn't picking my goddamn nose.”

Now he lights up on what looks like instinct, and takes a long drag. His eyes roll back into his head a little. “Jesus fuckin' _God_. How the fuck did I forget about this? You're an angel from heaven, sweetheart.”

Steve laughs. “Are you talking to me or to that cigarette?”

“To the cigarette, wise guy. Get outta here, me and my baby are having a private moment.” He blows a smoke ring toward the ceiling. Steve just kind of crumples, and buries his face in Buck's shoulder, his own shoulders hitched up near his ears from the strain of keeping the tears swallowed down.

“Bucky – I'm sorry, I just – _fuck_ , I've missed you so bad – ”

Bucky wraps an arm around his shoulders. “Hey. _Hey_. None'a that language oughtta you, huh? Think about my poor virgin ears.”

Steve gives a shaky laugh. “Yeah, guess I forgot about those.”

“Well, don't do it again. Look at me, all confused and everything, you gotta set a good example, huh?” They're both laughing a little. Steve pulls away from Buck's shoulder, embarrassed, but Bucky pursues as Steve retreats, and ends up half in Steve's lap, one leg hooked over Steve's thigh. He gives a contented little hum, then looks down at his cigarette. “Well, shit. Someone's gonna have to get up for an ashtray.”

“ _Someone_ ,” Steve says. “Figure it might be the guy who's doing the smoking?”

“Nah,” Bucky says. “It'll probably be the dumb mook who bought the cigarettes.” He grins, that dumb old cockeyed grin of his almost exactly the same as it ever was, even if his eyes won't meet Steve's. Steve thinks that he could live off of that grin the way that Saint Catherine lived off of the Eucharist, and then he winces and crosses himself automatically for thinking something like that. Bucky's expression goes all soft.

“Did you just think something bad, sweetheart?”

Steve starts at the _sweetheart_ , but Buck doesn't seem to notice. “A little.”

“Can't have been that bad, if it was you that was thinking it.”

“Why does everyone always _say_ that?” Steve says, a little annoyed. It's not too fun, having people think that even your _brain's_ all scrubbed clean and all-American. He's pretty sure that the stuff he thinks about is just as bad as the stuff that anyone else does. Especially the stuff about Buck. He feels himself blushing. Bucky's looking at him sidelong.

“Because you're the best guy in the world, champ, that's all.” He looks away from Steve's face, and gulps down the rest of his coffee so he can tap the cigarette ash off into the empty mug. The tremor in his hand is getting worse. It's been a few hours, Steve realizes, since he shot up. “You – you still praying for me, ace?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “You're still getting your rosary. For a while – ” and then he can't help it, how his voice cracks a little, how he's starting to tear up. “They were for the repose of your soul.” And it had nearly killed him every time, saying the Eternal Rest instead of the Fatima. Praying had gone from a comfort to a reminder, a torment. _He's dead, he's dead, he's dead._

He realizes, distantly, that he's shaking a little. Him and Buck are a matched set. He laughs. Buck says “You think maybe it helped?”

“I guess I think praying always helps,” he says, and then feels guilty, because he thinks that isn't true anymore, not really.

“Because,” Buck says. “You prayed. For my soul. And I. I got out. I. Ascended?”

“Buck,” Steve says. “You weren't – you weren't actually dead.”

“They cut the body open,” Buck says. His voice is distant, almost dreamy. “I looked down. I saw. The body. The heart. Cut open. D-d- _dead_.”

Steve squeezes his hand a little. Bucky says “I woke up. In the ice. I. _Cold_. I. I was loosed from the prison and I. _Did_ things.”

He says “You believe in the devil, don't you?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I guess I do.” He knows it's not the kind of thing that people admit, anymore, but nowadays the devil's a lot easier for him to believe in than God's mercy.

Buck swallows, and his eyes are huge and terrified in his sick-looking face. “You. Pray for me. Please. I.” He grabs for Steve's hand, squeezes it so hard that it aches a little. “There's something in me. I can feel it in me. I'm scared. _Fuck_ , I'm _scared_ , I don't know what's fucking _in_ me, Stevie, what it'll make me do – ”

Steve holds his hand, tries to keep his own fear out of his voice. “Of course I'll keep praying for you, but it's not – you're _sick_ , Buck, you're just sick, that's all. They did stuff to your brain, so you have those hallucinations and everything. And the _drugs_ , Buck, you can't heal up right while you're doing that stuff. You gotta – stay with me, ok? Stay here. I won't let you do anything bad.”

Bucky goes kind of boneless against him for a second, leaning back against Steve's chest, letting Steve support his weight. Then he sits bolt upright. “F-f-f-f-f- _fuck_.”

“What? What is it?”

“The goddamn _kids_ ,” Bucky says. “What time is it?”

“It's, uh, just past eleven.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Bucky says. “I didn't drop them off.”

“Who?”

Bucky shows him his right arm. The words are faded from his bath, but Steve can still make them out. _Mikey, 15. Lily, 17. They live with you. Don't kill them._

Buck's off the couch and hunting for his boots. “Goddamn _kids_ ,” he says. “Gotta go home. Shoot up. Need to pick 'em up at three.”

Steve watches him, bemused. “Where'd you get a coupla kids from?”

“Coupla Goddamn Kids,” Bucky says grimly. “Found them. In an alley.”

“You used to find kittens like that,” Steve says. He decides that he's delighted by this development. “You used to bottle feed them.”

Bucky shoots him a look. “I. _Didn't_.”

“Oh, yes you did,” Steve says. He's the happiest guy on earth. If Buck's adopted two homeless kids it means that he's sticking around New York. It also means that he's still _himself_. “You go crazy if you don't have something to fuss over. Wait, let me make you a sandwich and put some coffee in a thermos for you before you jump out my window.”

Bucky gives the window a betrayed glance. “How did. You know.”

“That you were gonna jump out the window? Lucky guess. I would too, if it weren't for the neighbors. I'm pretty sure they're already not too hot on having me live here. I guess they figure it's like handing out an engraved invitation to every passing jerk with a ray gun and a plan.” He heads into the kitchen. “Come in here with me, I'm not letting you go until you've got your sandwich.”

Buck follows obediently, though he says “Sandwiches are problematic.”

“Yeah, I know. Peanut butter ok?”

“Insufficient intelligence.”

“You're having peanut butter.”

Buck had always stolen Steve's peanut butter ration during the war: Steve figures it'll probably go the way the milkshake did.

Steve starts rummaging around for ingredients. He actually has bread in the fridge, thanks to Sam's mom, and it hasn't been in there long enough to go moldy. “Hey, remember how the howlies used to call you dad?”

“What is,” Bucky says, “A howlie.”

“Oh,” Steve says, a little deflated. “That's what we called our unit, during the war. The Howling Commandos. Anyway, they used to call you dad, because you took care of everyone, but if anyone messed up they knew they were _really_ gonna catch it when dad found out. I remember once Dugan almost dropped a live ordinance on his own foot, and you screamed at him for about a half an hour without breathing. Morita cried, he was laughing so hard.” It had been a wonderful day.

“You,” Bucky says, “were mom?”

“No,” Steve says.

“You were,” Bucky says with conviction. “You were mom.”

“Ok, yeah,” Steve admits.

“Mom plans the parties,” Bucky says, “And dad kicks the asses.”

“Yeah!” Steve says. “You remember?”

“I remember,” Bucky says, “ _That_.” And he sticks his finger into the jar of peanut butter.

A few hours after he leaves, Steve turns on the news and sees that a dentist's office in Westchester has gone up in flames.

*****  


The creature is having an extremely eventful day.

First, it rode on the subway. Then it evaded capture by Rogers, Steven Grant, alias Captain America. Then it threatened Rogers, Steven Grant with a knife. Then it went with Rogers, Steven Grant to have breakfast.

Rogersstevengrant (You can call me Steve) bought the creature a strawberry milkshake. The creature has discovered that it has extremely strong feelings about strawberry milkshakes.

The feelings are positive.

After breakfast, the creature went with Rogersstevengrant to his home, where he took a bath.

The bath was very, very positive.

The pictures of Barnes, James Buchanan in Rogersstevengrant's apartment were not positive. When the creature looked at them the body nearly rejected the strawberry milkshake.

Unacceptable.

Other things that are positive: the way that Rogersstevengrant's voice sounds when he calls the creature "Buck." Black coffee with lots of sugar. The way that Steve's face looked when he saw that the creature had shaved. Lucky Strikes. Steve's hand on his wrist.

The creature wishes that today didn't have to be the last time that he saw Rogersstevengrant. The creature, however, knows that he is _crazier than a shithouse rat_ and a high-priority target of Hydra, and that his presence has the tendency to make Rogersstevengrant make _stupid fucking decisions_ and behave like _a goddamn suicidal jackass_. He knows that there is something _bad_ in him, something that Rogersstevengrant will try to save him from. His presence is therefore a direct threat to Rogersstevengrant's safety.

Unacceptable.

Currently, the creature is standing outside of Bronx Regional, waiting to pick up the Goddamn Kids. He has been bringing them to and picking them up from school for two weeks now, because if he doesn't the Goddamn Kids will not actually attend.

_I didn't waste my time schlepping my ass around the whole of fuckin' creation forging documents and threatening fuckin' punk-ass school administrators to deal with the two of them feeding me some candyass bullshit about how they aren't feeling good enough to go to school, and if they think they can get away with any kinda clowning on my watch they're in for one hell of a surprise; their happy asses are getting dragged to school every goddamn day if they have the fuckin' TB, and they'll fuckin' thank me for it._

At exactly 3:24 PM the Goddamn Kids emerge from the school and begin shuffling in the creature's direction. Mikey looks toward the creature and giggles, and pokes Lily in the ribs. Lily looks at the creature, looks away, then looks back again. Her eyes widen. She grabs Mikey's arm and says something to him.

Mikey screams.

They run over. Mikey says "Oh my God, _foster daddy_! _Look_ at you, bitch, you're a fucking _model_!"

Lily says "John, you look _so good_ , we didn't even recognize you! What happened?"

"He liked them," the creature says. "The flowers." He starts walking in the direction of their squat. The Goddamn Kids walk with him.

Mikey says "oh my God, you _whore_ , you had a date and you didn't tell us? Was it amazing? Did you fuck? _Hold up_ , you're wearing his clothes, aren't you? John, you slut!"

The creature -

Blushes?

Unacceptable.

"Jesus Christ, kid, get your goddamn mind out of the gutter," he says.

Lily says "He's _blushing_!"

_Highly_ unacceptable.

"Maybe if you want me to get my mind out of the gutter you shouldn't swear so much, foster daddy," says Mikey.

_Kid's got a fuckin' point._

Lily says "So what did you do on your date?"

The creature says "Steve isn't. He's not my. It wasn't a _date_." Then he says "We had breakfast."

"Steve?" Mikey wrinkles his nose. "Steve is _not_ hot. Steve is what white grandpas are named. You're _so_ hot, John, you should be dating a guy named, like, _Antoine_."

Inaccurate.

"Steve's plenty hot," he says.

Lily raises her eyebrows. "So show us a picture." 

"I don't. Have one."

"Bitch, you are _lying_ ," Mikey says.

"Come on, John, show us," Lily says. 

Mikey says "If he's a hideous troll we'll still _totally_ tell you that he's cute."

The Goddamn Kids are an extremely persistent enemy force. Casualties will only be avoided through immediate capitulation to their demands. He pulls out his phone and shows them the picture he took in Steve's apartment.

He has never seen them so quiet before.

"He's doesn't even look _real_ ," Lily says.

Mikey says " _Jesus take the wheel_." Then he says "John. If you don't have hot, nasty sex with that man I will _never speak to you again_."

Acknowledged.

He says "Lily. What did you get. On your math test?"

Lily says "ninety-seven. I got a couple of questions wrong, but there was extra credit."

"Attagirl," he says, and she smiles and looks at the ground.

Evasion tactics: successful.

"Mikey," he says. "You got any homework?"

"Don't think I don't notice you changing the subject, John," Mikey says, and sighs. "I have to write an essay. For history. It's due in like, a _week_ , and I don't even know what to write about."

"What's. The topic?"

"World War Two."

_Oh._

"It's, like, a critical lens essay? So you have to take a quote and then, like, find examples if what it means or something? Ugh, I don't even know."

The creature takes a deep breath. "Want some help with that, champ?"

Mikey looks suspicious. "Do you even _know_ anything about World War Two?"

"A hell of a lot more than I fuckin' want to," Bucky says. Then he says "I'm running the mess tonight, by the way. You two ain't getting away with eating fuckin' pop tarts for dinner again. I don't got time for any damn questions from social services when you both get fuckin' scurvy."

The Goddamn Kids groan.

"You're the worst foster daddy _ever_ ," Mikey says.

Inaccurate.

*****

Ok, so, it's like this. Mikey met Lily like two years ago, when they were assigned to the same foster family. Blah blah blah, foster daddy is a fucking asshole who hits kids, foster mommy doesn't give a shit, foster _fabulous bitches_ pack their bags and hop a Greyhound for New York. Sad orphan-babies backstory: _addressed_.

So the good part. They're just sleeping in parks for a while, which, ok, isn't the good part, hold up. They're sleeping in parks and hanging out with this bunch of fucked-up rich kids who think that being homeless is some kind of, like, political thing? And they're all excited to show how totally openminded and amazing they are to be hanging out with two _totally authentic abused foster kids_. Which sucks because _ugh_ , but is also kind of great because free food. And then the new semester starts back up at the New School or wherever, so their free-shit source is gone, and Lily has a job at McDonalds but Mikey can't find anything anywhere because no one will hire a homeless fifteen year old, and it's getting colder out.

Then the _really_ good part. They're sleeping in this gross alley, like incredibly gross and garbagey, and they don't even have the energy to find anywhere else because their lives are so fucking tragic and terrible. And then this guy walks up to them in the dark and they're like “oh well, guess it's time to get weirdly sex-murdered to death!” But instead the guy crouches down and says “Are you. Hungry?” in the scratchiest voice Mikey's ever heard. 

Mikey says “Um, yeah?” even though Lily is hitting his leg like _holy shit shut the fuck up bitch._

The guy says “There's a diner. Down the block. I can pay.”

Lily says “ _Why_?”

“You're hungry. And cold. You shouldn't. You shouldn't have to feel that way.”

Lily says “Are you the Revelator?”

The guy says “Yes.”

Mikey says “What the fuck is a Revelator?”

So Lily explains, and Mikey says “Oh my God, that is _so badass_ ,” and they go to the diner for pancakes. And this guy who helped them, ok, so he's got a nasty-looking hobo beard and fucked up long hobo hair, but he's also got the prettiest, saddest blue eyes Mikey's ever seen, so instead of looking like a sex-murderer he just looks kind of like White Jesus. Which is good, because bitch _never_ smiles, and sometimes he seems like he doesn't understand _anything_ Mikey's talking about, and he definitely sometimes has this sexy Russian accent and sometimes a boring American accent and sometimes this hilarious New Yawk-y thing like he's a character from something on Turner Classic Movies. And he calls the waitress ma'am, which is _adorable_. And he says they can call him John.

So that's how they meet John, and when they explain how they don't want to sleep in any shelters or whatever because they want to stay out of the system he nods like he gets it, and says that they can stay in his squat if they want. Which is like, kind of weird, but they figure if he had wanted to sex-murder them he could have done that in the alley, and Lily says that _everyone_ says that the Revelator is like a legit superhero, like Daredevil or something, and besides there's just this feeling that John gives you. Just like, ok, maybe he's weird and fucked up, but you can tell that all he wants is to help. Like there's this big teddy bear lurking underneath the murder-hobo exterior. 

So they all move in together, and John keeps them moving between squats to make sure they don't get caught, and Mikey and Lily start to get to know the guy.

When they first move into the squat with him he kind of sits them down and says “If you stay here. At night. If I scream. Don't. Don't come near me.”

Mikey and Lily kind of look at each other. Lily says “Yeah, ok.”

“Don't come up behind me. Never touch me.”

So this is weird. Mikey says “No problem.”

“If anyone. If they come. If they ask about me. You've never seen me.”

Now they're just nodding.

“Do you know. How to fire a gun?”

Well, shit. “Um, no?” says Lily. 

John just kind of sighs, _pulls a fucking gun out from fucking nowhere like thug Dumbledore_ , and shows them where the safety is and how to hold it and everything.

It's kind of awesome. 

The longer they live together the more John starts acting like a real person with, like, an actual non-terminator personality, which is how Mikey finds out the The Revelator? Is a freak. Just a totally ridiculous freak who does shit like picking them up from school and helping with their homework and buying _healthy fucking dinners_ for them like he's their foster daddy for real, and giving them these amazing looks like _bitch, are you fucking kidding me_ when they try and get away with shit. And then Mikey finds out that he's gay, or at least into dudes, and has some sort of insane _thing_ going on with some guy he shot, and Mikey is _totally_ into it, and maybe kind of low-key in love with the guy, no big deal, whatever. 

It's not like Mikey's _stupid_. He knows that John is really, really fucked up. Like, he shoots up right in front of them _all_ the time, which is _so_ not ok foster daddy behavior. And then there's the thing where he _always_ wears long sleeves, and _never_ takes off the glove on his left hand. At first Mikey was just like “ok, whatever, homeless people dress weird?” But then one day John's out doing some sort of ninja errand and Lily says “Hey, do you think it was a bomb? Or, like, an IED or whatever they're called?”

Mikey just stares at her. “What?”

“Whatever messed up John's arm,” she says. “I mean, it makes sense, right? If he's got scars and stuff he'd want to keep them covered up. And how he's always so paranoid and everything, like remember when they were setting off firecrackers at that Chinese market last week? He _freaked_ , he had his _gun_ out. I think maybe he was in Iraq or something and he got blown up, and that's why he's so, you know. How he is.”

She doesn't say _crazy_ , but she doesn't really have to.

“Oh my God,” Mikey says, because suddenly he's really, really sad. “Poor John.”

“Yeah,” Lily says, and after that they try to be better foster babies, because Lily's idea about what John's deal is is the first thing that makes more sense than “he is literally an alien doing research on earthlings,” and it isn't actually funny at all, not even a little.

And then Mikey and Lily get out of school one day like normal, and John is there to pick them up like normal, and holy. Fucking. Shit.

John? Is a model. A fucking model. He's somehow shaved and gotten cleaned up and tied his hair back and shit, and he's wearing a legit leather bomber jacket over a clean white t-shirt, and it turns out that under the gross straggly hobo beard and dire hair situation bitch is absolutely fucking _gorgeous_. And he's all blushing and cute about his date, and it is _too much_. 

This is actually seriously no longer an ok situation. 

And then he shows them a picture of this Greek god he's fucking and Mikey and Lily both cast themselves into the sea and drown. That's what Lily says, anyway. Lily would totally be in AP classes if they didn't go to, like, special school. “Let's just cast ourselves into the sea and drown, Mikey, this is _so_ unfair.”

“Accurate,” Mikey says, and casts himself onto his sleeping bag, because you can't live with John for more than a month without starting to talk like him. Which is the _worst_ , because on a good day he talks like a murder-robot and an angry Jewish grandpa sharing the same body, and on a bad day you just feel really, really bad for him.

That's when their day starts getting _seriously_ weird.

“Here,” John says, and hands them a bag of takeout that legit smells really good. “Don't throw it away and eat some garbage instead, I'll fuckin' _know_.” 

“Wait, aren't you going to eat with us?” Lily says, because foster daddy is normally _all_ about having family dinner together; he practically _herds_ them like the world's sexiest border collie if they try to eat separately.

“Gotta go to work,” John says, and goes into his corner. 

So normally they have this unspoken rule, like, Thou Shalt Not Look in Each Other's Corners, because they don't have much privacy, and it would be really weird to accidentally see foster daddy masturbating, no matter how hot he is. But Mikey and Lily both know that _work_ means, like, _shooting drug dealers_ , and John has never actually _talked_ about that before, so they both kind of sketchily watch him while he gets ready in his corner.

And then, for the first time _ever_ , John takes off his glove and his shirt in front of them instead of going into the hallway to change, and he has a _fucking metal arm._

They both just kind of sit there, staring at him, while he gets dressed. He puts on an outfit Mikey's never seen before, and it's scary as _shit_ , all of this black leather with the top cut so that the metal arm is hanging out. And then he puts goggles on, and this creepy mask, and he doesn't look like their foster daddy at _all_ anymore, he doesn't even look _human_ , he looks like a _monster_. And then he's yanking up a floorboard and pulling out this duffel bag that he unzips, and he starts pulling all of these fucking _weapons_ out of it and strapping them onto himself. It's not just the gun that they knew about, it's _four guns_ , and all of these _knives_ , and a fucking _grenade_ , and then Lily says “John?” in this small, scared voice that sounds exactly how Mikey feels. 

That blank mask turns toward them. Mikey almost pees himself. Then John's fumbling with the straps, yanking the goggles up onto the top of his head and pulling the mask off so that they can see his face again. “You're scared,” he says “Of me.”

He sounds so sad, but Mikey is _pissed off_ , so he says “Well, _yeah_ , Freddie Kreuger, because you're _fucking terrifying_.”

And then Mikey feels _awful_ , because John goes completely still like he does when he's freaking out about something, says “I w-w-w-w-wouldn't h-h-h-hurt y-y-y-y-y-you,” and does that thing where his head twitches. He hasn't stuttered like that in a _week_ , and now he's all fucked up again because Mikey yelled at him, and Mikey is totally the _worst kid who ever lived_ , even if foster daddy _is_ a scary murder-robot. He's trying really, really hard not to stare at that arm.

Lily says “We know, we know you wouldn't hurt us,” all quiet and calm. “But what are you _doing_? You have a _grenade_. I mean, that's – you could hurt a lot of people, John.”

Mikey is doing a really, really bad job of not staring at the arm. John walks over and kneels next to Mikey's sleeping bag. He says “Hey, champ.”

Mikey looks up at him. He's still not even a little used to how John's face looks without that gross beard, kind of soft and young and way too skinny and so fucking _gentle_ , like he isn't _literally covered in knives_. John holds out his metal hand with the palm up. “You can touch it. If you want.” 

Mikey reaches out and touches John's palm. “Oh my God, you're so cold,” he says, and puts both of his hands around the metal one to warm it up, because John shouldn't have to be that cold.

John kind of smiles at him a little. “I can't. Feel it.”

And then Mikey is crying, which is _so dumb_ , and John just pulls him in and hugs him, even though the rule is No Touching John Ever. But now John's rubbing Mikey's back with his real hand and saying “Hey, slugger. S'okay. I got you. I got you.”

Mikey's still crying like a complete hot mess, and John's way too skinny and that leather shit he's wearing has, like, pointy bits, but he smells _so_ good, like spicy body wash and coffee and cigarettes, like how a _dad_ is supposed to smell, and Mikey wants to tell him to get off, he's _fine_ , John, he's _totally fine_ , but instead what he says is “I miss my mom.” 

“Yeah,” John says, and his voice cracks. “Yeah, me too.”

Then he says “Lily. The people. The people I'm going after. They're bad. They're real bad. They did things. To me. Made me how I am now.” He takes a breath. “I'm not gonna hurt any civilians. Cross my fuckin' heart. Just the bad guys. If you feel like you gotta – if think you should turn me in, that's ok, you can do that. But. You won't see me again, and the cops won't be able to stop me. The way they made me, the bad guys, they made me so I'm pretty fuckin' hard to stop. I guess there's pretty much no one who can take me out, except this one guy, and he's not gonna be a problem. So I'm the best guy for the job, I guess. And I gotta finish it before they do what they did to me to anyone else.” He stands up. “Mikey, if I don't come back you're the man of the house, ok? Lily, you're in charge.” He smiles: this big happy smile that makes him look like a totally different person. Then he says “See you later, sweethearts,” and jumps out the window.

Lily says “Mikey, this is really bad.”

“Fucking yes it's fucking bad, John's a robot and he just _jumped out the fucking window_!”

“Mikey,” Lily says. “ _Focus_. This is _seriously fucking bad_. I think he's going to try to kill Captain America.”

*****

 

Bucky goes down. The creature comes up.

It adjusts its mask.

It smiles.

The target's base is in a semi-residential area, a single-story building with a hidden sub-basement. Six bodies inside, all non-combatants. 

The creature clears the place in under ten minutes.

The main target is not present. The creature holds its gun to the head of the only human it has left alive. “Sara Goldberg,” it says.

The man says “Hail – ”

The creature breaks his jaw with its metal hand and reaches into his mouth to yank out his cyanide tooth. It presses its gun to the man's jaw and grinds it in. It says “Stop fucking me around. Sara Goldberg.” 

The man is not very efficient at speaking with a broken jaw, but the creature makes out something like “Hydra's children do not fear death.”

“Yeah?” says the creature. “Do they fear getting their fingers cut off?”

The man has trouble deciding how to answer that question. The creature cuts off one of his fingers, by way of helping to clarify the issue.

It turns out that the answer is yes.

 

*****

 

“Sara Ruth Goldberg,” says the creature. “First of all, fuck you very fuckin' much for making me drag my ass all the way up to fuckin' Westchester. Figures that a piece of Hydra shit like you would live in fuckin' _White Plains_. I had to get on the goddamn _Metro North_ , Sara Ruth Goldberg; do you have any _fucking_ idea how much I hate trains that ain't underground?”

Sara Goldberg stands very still in her teal-and-cream living room, her hand on the light switch, her eyes on the gun pointed at her head. “Who are you?” she says.

“Who do I fuckin' _look_ like?”

She swallows. Her fingers pick at the hem of her silk blouse. Her nails are freshly painted: plum for autumn. “Where did you find the Asset's uniform?”

The creature pulls off its mask, shoves its goggles up onto its forehead. “In the Asset's fuckin' _boudoir_ , shit-for-brains, where do you _think_ I found it?” Its voice grows softer. “You recognize me, Sara Ruth Goldberg?”

She nods, a quick bob of her head. “You – you're supposed to be dead. The disposal team – ”

“Your punks didn't finish,” it tells her. “Now you about to feel the wrath of a menace.”

She stares. “What?”

“Oh, for _Christ's_ sake,” the creature says. “Fuckin' _Tupac_ , asshole, don't you got any _culture_?” It stands up from the cream-colored armchair, steps closer to where she's standing by the teal accent wall. “You recognize me, Sarah Ruth Goldberg. Why? Why do you recognize me?”

“I,” she says, and licks her lips. “I treated you.”

“You treated me,” it says. “How. How did you treat me, Sara Ruth Goldberg?”

“I – I treated you medically before and after missions.”

“Yeah,” the creature says. “You did. Like a doctor, huh? How long were you my doctor for, Sarah Ruth Goldberg?”

“Thirteen – thirteen years,” she says. 

“Huh,” the creature says. “That's a real long time. We must have a real special relationship by now. Doctor and patient, all this time. Two of us talkin' about our lives, talkin' about our families and all. Us knowing each other so well, this oughtta be real easy for you,” it says, and presses its gun up under her chin. “Say my name.”

She opens her mouth. At first no sound comes out. Then she says “Winter Soldier.”

“Wrong answer,” the creature says, and backhands her across the face.

She says “ _Sputnik._ ”

The creature smiles.

It says “Compliance is rewarded, Sara Ruth Goldberg. You used to say that to me. _Compliance will be rewarded_. But I was _real_ compliant, wasn't I? I was a real good soldier. I didn't know how to be anything else, did I, Sara Ruth Goldberg? I didn't have so much as a fuckin' _thought_ to call my own. How was I rewarded, Sara Ruth Goldberg?

She's crying quietly, tears dripping onto her cream silk blouse.

It says “ _Sedation will only force a delay in the cryofreeze process. We can go ahead with the surgery as long as the asset is restrained._ Did you say that, Sara Ruth Goldberg?”

She almost nods.

“Do you know what it feels like to have your intestines cut up and sewed back together while you're awake and watching, Sara Ruth Goldberg?” 

She shakes her head.

Its smile widens. 

“Wanna find out?”

“Please,” she says. “ _Please._ I'm a mother, I have children – ”

“ _I had a fucking mother_ ,” the creature says. “ _I was somebody's child_. Is that what you became a doctor for, Sara Ruth Goldberg, so you could torture another mother's son? _Thirteen fucking years_ , Sara Ruth Goldberg, you Nazi piece of _shit_. And forgive me if I _fucking_ presume, but you don't get a name like _Sara Ruth Goldberg_ if your mama's a _fucking Methodist_ ,” it says, and breaks the pinky finger of her right hand. She screams. It snarls at her like a dog. “ _Shut the fuck up._ I thought _I_ knew from self-hate, you _crazy goddamn asshole_ , what the _fuck_ are you doing _joining fucking Hydra?_ ”

“ _Please_ ,” she says. “I'll do anything you want – ”

The creature stills. It goes quiet. “Anything, huh?”

She nods. Her nose is running. “Yes, _please_ –”

“I know your name, Sara Ruth Goldberg,” it says. “I want you to say mine.”

“I don't, I don't know – ”

“James Buchanan Barnes,” it says. “My name is James Buchanan Barnes. Say it.”

She says “James Buchanan Barnes.”

It smiles.

“Good girl,” it says, “Compliance is rewarded.” 

She bursts into sobs.

The creature shoots her through the head. 

Bucky flinches, and stares at the body on the ground. His right hand is shaking.

“ _Shit_ ,” he says. “Oh, _fuck_.” 

He drops the gun and stumbles three steps backwards. Then he turns and vomits on Sara Ruth Goldberg's couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there's that! As a palate cleanser, and in honor of Bucky's completely ridiculous Borscht Belt accent (I imagine him sounding like some sort of unholy combination of Jimmy Cagney and Don Rickles: feel free to imagine that the next time you're reading a sex scene about him), here is a very silly Sid Caeser sketch that I think would probably go over well with a couple of WWII vets. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5m6Czgl1acU


	3. Decaf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam Wilson presents his Universal Theory of Steve Rogers. A Coupla Goddamn Kids hatch a plot. The creature and the body enter into negotiations, and achieve a conditional easement of hostilities. Steve recalls the sludges of Paris. Two very old men masturbate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS for this chapter: talk of self-harm and suicide. Not very explicit, but potentially disturbing, intrusive thoughts and memories of past sexual trauma. Masturbation, and the sexy thoughts fueling said masturbation, because this story should more accurately be titled "Two Old Guys Jerkin' Off: A Love Story." As usual, drugs and cussin'.

"Steve," Sam says. "Seriously, I love you, man, but if you don't stop pacing I'm going to get one of those night-night guns and take you down like a damn elephant."

Steve stops pacing, but you could probably power half of Manhattan with the nasty energy he's giving off. Sam takes a sip of his tea. It's this herbal stuff that Bruce gave to him. It's ok, definitely pretty soothing. He wants to dunk Steve into it like a giant blond teaspoon. 

"Do I have to make you do breathing exercises?" Sam says.

Steve looks pained. "Please don't."

"Then sit your ass down and drink your Slumberland Herbal Tisane."

Steve sits down, and stares at his tea like he suspects it of having Nazi sympathies.

“Do you have any coffee?”

“There's some decaf in the freezer.” The regular's in the cupboard, but Sam is making an executive decision re: Steve and caffeine.

Steve wrinkles his nose, takes a sip of his tea, and makes an I-didn't-die-for-my-country-to-suffer-like-this face. “This stuff tastes like rationing.” 

Sam ignores him. "I've been thinking. You guys should have one of those Brangelina names, right? You know, for celebrity couples? But the choices are just damn terrible. Beve? _Sucky_?"

"We're not a couple," Steve says. Then he sighs and says "Buck Rogers."

Sam blinks. "That's actually pretty good."

"Yeah, I thought so," Steve says, and puts his head between his knees. "He could be dead, Sam."

"I mean this in the nicest possible way," Sam says, "but your guy is like the cockroach of humans. He'll probably survive the nuclear holocaust."

“You didn't _see_ him,” Steve says. “He's starving, he's confused – did I tell you that he can't tie his own shoelaces? He had to ask me for help, he was shaking so bad, and then he started telling me that he was ready to receive his orders in German. It took me ten minutes to calm him down again. He's a _wreck_.”

“Ok,” Sam says. “So he could be doing better. But I'm guessing all of that stuff didnt happen overnight, and he's survived just fine so far. The only difference now is that you _know_ about it, so you're driving youself crazy worrying. Meanwhile, he's all business as usual, except he got to have a good meal and get cleaned up and hang out with his best buddy for a while, and now he has your number if he really does need help. I'd say that's a win.”

Steve doesn't say anything. They're in Sam's apartment, sitting on Sam's nice comfortable couch with some cookies that his mom made sitting on the coffee table, because the last thing Steve needs right now is to be alone in his depressing, empty apartment with those damn paintings of Bucky.

Those paintings piss Sam off for two reasons. First, because they're horrifying, and probably _supposed_ to piss you off: there's nothing nice about seeing this happy, good-looking kid's systematic dehumanization laid out in three pictures.

The other reason that the paintings piss him off is that they're _beautiful_. Because Sam is supposed to be Steve's friend (his best friend, Sam sometimes suspects: he's pretty sure he's Captain America's _best friend in this century_ , which tickles his inner nine year old as much as it stresses the hell out of the part of him that wants Steve to have a good support system), and he hadn't had a _damn clue_ that skinny little Steve Rogers had been a trained, professional artist until he saw those paintings the other day, with Bucky Barnes looking like a Caravaggio of Christ crucified (Sam took a few art history classes in college: it was good stuff). He had known, vaguely, that there had been a real human being named Steve Rogers whose whole life had basically been erased by history to make room for Captain America, but it's one thing to know that and another to see the depressing evidence of it in the guy who showed up to help repaint your mom's living room two weeks ago. Now that he knows, though, he can get on Steve's case about drawing more.

In the first couple of days after he brought Bucky back to his apartment to get cleaned up Steve was responding to all of Sam's texts with these great little cartoons: Steve's a neurotic monkey in a Captain America suit, and Sam's a long-suffering owl (Sam asked him why not a falcon, and Steve texted back with a picture of the monkey looking frazzled with piles of crumpled up paper around it, and the caption "Sam Wilson is very wise, and raptor facial expressions are very hard to draw. SGR"). Sam asked Steve for the originals of all of the drawings, and he's put them up in his office. His coworkers are all jealous as hell that he has a signed endorsement of his wisdom from Captain America. Sam thinks he's allowed to be a little smug about it. 

Then Steve realized that Bucky had up and disappeared on him, which was how they had gotten here, with a despairing national icon sucking all of the oxygen out of Sam's living room. 

Sam pokes him in the shoulder. "Hey, my mom made those cookies for you, you know. She's going to be real disappointed if you don't eat any of them." 

"That's low, Sam," Steve says, but he takes one anyway, just like Sam knew he would. Steve is a natural mama's boy in _serious_ need of a mama, and Sam's mom has been more than happy to step in and spoil the hell out of him. 

They first met a few months back, when Sam's mom broke her ankle and couldn't get to church on her own. Steve heard Sam bitching about it -- he works Sundays, so it was either abandon his Sunday morning group session or abandon his poor sweet church-lady mother -- and immediately volunteered to escort her, which was how Sam's mom officially Won Church. At first Sam thought that the way that she was crowing about the looks on all of her friend's faces when she rolled into church in a wheelchair being pushed by Captain America in his Sunday suit was downright un-Christian, but then he thought about it for a while and decided that yeah, if it was him he'd gloat too. 

Since then Steve and Sam's mom have become semi-regular church buddies (and occasional lunch and shopping buddies: Sam has an amazing video on his phone of a shopping-bag laden Captain America being hectored mercilessly into a changing room at Macy's by the world's happiest retired elementary school teacher). Steve says that he likes the Baptist service, that it cheers him up, but Sam knows for a fact that if he misses morning mass he'll go to an evening one instead. The guy sometimes goes to mass on _Wednesdays_. Three things that Steve will never miss if there isn't an alien invasion or a Bucky Incident: his morning run, Call the Midwife (Steve can deny it all he wants: Sam has _seen_ his netflix queue) and his regularly scheduled flagellation session. 

Sam pokes him again. "Eat that cookie and tell me something about Bucky." 

Steve breaks off a corner of the cookie and stares at it like it's a Hydra cyanide tooth. "Whaddya want to know about him?" 

"I mean, what kind of guy is he? All I know is the Smithsonian stuff, you know? Best friends since childhood, gave his life for his country. Nothing about what he's _like_. He was a sniper, right? Strong silent type?" 

"Buck?" Steve snorts, and a little life comes back into his face. "He never shuts up. He's got a mouth like a sailor, too; I think he cusses more than anyone I ever met." 

"Wait, _your_ Bucky's got a mouth like a sailor? How does that even _work_?" 

"I mostly don't even hear the word "fuck" anymore if it's in his voice," Steve admits. "After a while it just kinda washes over you, like the sound of the ocean or something. I only make him stop when it gets bad enough that I'm worried for his eternal soul." He grins a little, happier just _thinking_ about the guy. "He's just – I mean, he talks like that, and he drinks like a fish and smokes like a chimney, and I think he got up about half the skirts in Brooklyn, but he's – " he stops, searching for the word. "He's _sweet_. He'd slug me for saying it, but he's a sweet guy. People think that _I_ was the good one, but he's the guy who'd sit and read to me and joke around for hours when I was too sick to get outta bed. He's the kinda guy who'd see some plain-looking girl by herself in the dancehall and single her out and dance with her all night, make all of her friends jealous." 

Steve talks differently when he talks about Bucky: his vowels flatten out a little and he starts dropping the ends of his words. He mentioned once that he'd started trying to lose his accent after getting shit in art school for his poor-Brooklyn-Irish way of talking, and that they'd given him elocution lessons in the USO to get rid of the rest of it (he did this 1940s radio announcer thing once to make Sam laugh, and it was about the funniest and weirdest thing on earth to hear this Cary Grant accent coming out of Steve). Sam would bet anything that Steve code-switches like a motherfucker the second he's around Bucky in the flesh. That's another good reason to try and find the guy right there: Sam would pay actual cash money to hear Steve go Full Cagney. 

"He sounds like a really great guy," Sam says, which is true: non-brainwashed James Barnes sounds like he'd be a lot of fun. Steve sort of preens for a second on his buddy's behalf -- which, like half of the shit Steve does, is incredibly endearing and kind of sad at the same time -- and then remembers himself and slumps again. 

See, here's the thing. If Steve was a regular guy pining for his junkie boyfriend Sam would be telling him to set some boundaries and try and get on with his life, you can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped, blah, blah, blah. But Steve is a whole other _situation_. Sometimes when people find out that Cap's all buddy-buddy with a VA counselor they have this lightbulb moment, like "oh, right, maybe stars-and-stripes has a little speck of the ol' PTSD!" But really, Steve's issues aren't familiar from the VA so much as they are from some research Sam did a few years back about trauma in refugee populations. 

He's tried to explain this a couple of times to a few of his buddies after about five beers. Like listen, _listen_. Imagine you live in this country, right? And there's a brutal war, and you witness and maybe participate in a _horrific_ amount of violence, and you lose absolutely everyone you care about. Then you end up in this _other_ country, where the culture and ways of doing things are completely foreign to you, and random assholes make fun of you for how you dress and act and talk while you're still coming to grips with the fact that everyone you love is gone and you can never go home again. Meanwhile, everyone around you is like "smile, motherfucker, you're in the Land of Plenty now, where there's a Starbucks on every corner and 500 channels on TV. You should be grateful! _Why aren't you acting more grateful_?" So you have to pretend to be grateful while you're dying inside. Sound like an traumatized, orphaned refugee? Also sounds like _Steve fucking Rogers, Captain Goddamn America_. Except that most refugees were part of a community of other people who were going through the same thing. Steve is all alone, _the last damn unicorn_ , if the last unicorn had horrible screaming nightmares about the time when it helped to liberate Buchenwald.

Usually this explanation yields a "huh." People don't want Sad Refugee Steve: they want Captain America, Indestructible Defender of Freedom. But that doesn't mean that Sam isn't _right_ , because he _is_ right, goddamnit. So yeah, Sam's a little protective of Steve. And if the last unicorn finds out that its best damn unicorn friend in the whole world is actually alive, then _damn straight_ , Sam's heading out with a tranq gun and bringing that damn unicorn in and starting a goddamn unicorn wildlife refuge in his backyard. Or something like that: at a certain point the metaphor kind of gets away from him. 

"Steve," Sam says now, "we're going to start planning how to track your boy down in a second, but first you're going to actually eat that cookie or I'll try to make you talk about that thing you refuse to talk about." 

"Which thing I refuse to talk about?" Steve says. "There's a few. I'm very repressed."

He's also _hilarious_ , and a hell of a lot more self-aware than most people give him credit for. Sam pokes him. 

" _The_ thing. Come on, man, you know what I mean, if you could see how your face lights up when you talk about him --"

Steve shoves the cookie into his mouth so fast Sam thinks he might actually choke to death. " _Low_ , Sam," he says when he can talk again.

"Well, you're going to have to talk about it to someone eventually, Captain I-don't-have-a-sexual-orientation--"

"I never said that, that's an unsubstantiated Shield rumor," Steve says, all cranky. 

" _Like I was saying_ , you'll have to talk about it to _someone_ , but it's not going to be me, because I'm pretty sure that mastodons have drowned in that particular Catholic tar pit. Do you still have the number for that therapist I told you about? She's a nun, Steve, you'll _love_ her." 

Captain America is glaring at him, which would be a lot more intimidating if Sam didn't know that Steve can't stay mad at him for longer than about 15 seconds. What can he say, it's just a gift that he has. 

"Did you just make a "Steve's old" joke?" 

"No, I made a "Steve is literally more Catholic than the pope" joke, because I'm pretty sure that the _pope_ is actually more kumbaya it's-ok-to-be-gay than you are."

"I'm _very_ kumbaya," Steve says, and he's also _very_ cranky, because that's how he gets when he's all depressed and not taking care of himself. If the guy wasn't probably the most legitimately good person Sam has ever met he would've given up on him by now. “I'm _very tolerant_.” 

"Yeah, ok," Sam says. "Anyway, we were talking about how we're going to stalk your boyfriend." 

"He's not my –" 

"Shut up, Steve. So talk me through what happened again. You chased him across a bunch of roofs like Daredevil and put a tracker on him like a creep. What happened to the tracker?" 

Steve pulls a square of paper out of his pocket and hands it to Sam, who unfolds it. The tiny tracker drops onto the floor. On the paper someone has written "Think you dropped this, slugger" in the kind of perfect cursive that no one uses anymore. Sam laughs. "Ok, so we knew the guy wasn't born yesterday, right? And _slugger_?" 

"Yeah, he never calls me by my name," Steve says. "It's always champ, ace, hotshot, that kinda thing." 

"Man, that is _flirting_ ," Sam says. "That nicknames thing, he is _flirting_ with you. He's just working his way up to calling you _baby_ or something." 

Steve goes redder than a damn coke can. Sam pumps his fist. " _Yes_ , I am _so right_ , I am _wise as hell_. He did, didn't he?" 

Steve is so flustered that he actually says "it ain't like that!" and Sam has to take a second to collect himself. 

"Steve. Steve! I'm not laughing at you, I swear, that was just really charming. You're very charming, Steve. So he called you baby, right? I'm wise as hell?" 

"He called me _sweetheart_ ," Steve says grimly, "because he's a drug addict with brain damage." 

"Or because he looooooves you," Sam says. Captain America throws a cookie at his head. Sam eats it, because he deserves a treat for being _so damn wise_. "Ok, so, he lost the tracker, and then he left." 

"And he hasn't called or written or come by for a week, and his squat's empty, and there hasn't been any Revelator news since the day I saw him and he killed that dentist in White Plains," Steve recites dully. "And we're not even sure that was him. There were no witnesses who will talk." 

The only surviving witness won't talk because the hardened Hydra asshole in question is short one finger and terrified out of his damn mind: Sam's pretty sure it was a Winter Soldier job. 

"Yeah, right, so we need to think this through a little more. Did he say anything about where he was heading when he left? 

"Yeah, uh, he said he had to pick the kids up from school." 

Sam blinked. "Is that some kind of drug slang that I'm too old to know about?" 

"No, I mean the kids I told you about, the ones he's squatting with. He said that he drops them off and picks them up at school every day." 

"Seriously?" Sam says. "The two of you deserve each other, and I mean that in a genuinely nice way, because you are both _wonderful_. I'll bet your first real date starts with him rescuing you from Snidely Whiplash." 

"Stop making _references_ ," says Captain Cranky. 

"Man," Sam says, "did you have your nap today? Have you even eaten? Wait, don't answer that, it's bad for my blood pressure. I'm ordering Chinese." 

" _That's bad for your blood pressure too_ ," says Steve, who is turning into a monster. Sam points a finger at him. 

"You. _You_ are going to my spare room and taking a damn nap. I'll wake you up when the food gets here." 

"You ain't my ma," Steve mumbles, because he's apparently given up on pretending that he isn't the scrappiest little newsie in all of Brooklyn. Sam is so, so happy. 

"No, I'm not," Sam says. "But if you don't do as you're told I will call _my_ mother and tell her all about how I'm worried about you because you're not taking care of yourself right." 

"Lower'n dirt, Sam Wilson," Steve says, but he does as he's damn well told. 

Later, Sam is watching a slightly less cranky Captain America systematically eating all of the bits of barbecued pork out of a container of fried rice when he says "he takes them to school every day, huh?"

"That's what he said," Steve says, and switches his attention to the beef and broccoli. 

"So he wouldn't drag them out of school just to change squats. And he probably won't change his pickup and drop off routine too much either." 

"I'm an idiot," Steve says. He's gone all wide-eyed. "Sam, that's so _simple_." 

"Well, one of us _is_ known to generations of history students for being a tactical genius, and clearly it's me, Sam Wilson," Sam says, and eats a piece of baby corn. "Feel like taking a trip to to the Bronx tomorrow?" 

"Do I ever," Steve says. He dumps the rest of the container of fried rice onto his plate. "I let that jerk borrow my favorite jacket. He's gonna have to give it back." 

***** 

Mikey and Lily exchange looks, nod their heads, and start whispering. 

"John," they whisper. " _Joooohhhhnnn_." 

John opens his eyes and sits straight up like Dracula. "What." 

You can't ever really say that John _wakes up_. He's asleep and then he's awake, there's no, like, _process_ there. Also, you can wake him up by quietly whispering his name from really far away across the room. It's one of the many things that make him a _very special_ creepy white dude. 

"Guess what day it is?" Lily says.

"It's your favorite day!" Says Mikey.

"It's personal hygiene day!" Lily says, and Mikey does jazz hands, because Mikey is having some kind of musical theater moment right now. Lily pinches him.

"That is not. My favorite day," John says, and does Bert-face. Like Bert and Ernie? That's the face. Mikey thinks it's adorable, because Mikey is some kind of straight-up freak when it comes to dudes. If Lily's abuela knew the kind of weird-ass homosexuals Lily was living with she would fall right out of her wheelchair.

"No, _your_ favorite day is never-taking-off-my-clothes-because-I'm-too-paranoid-to-be-naked day," Lily says. 

John Berts harder. Dude's got some _seriously_ angry eyebrows on him, but Lily does _not_ care, she is _not_ scared of John _or_ of his eyebrows. 

"You can go on your way to picking us up after school today!" Says Mikey. "It's perfect, because, like, I need to stay after school to talk to my math teacher, so it's _totally_ cool if you come later." 

"Uncharacteristic behavior," John says.

"What?" Lily says.

"Typically needle exchange day and p-p-p-personal hygiene day are announced when we are within a two-block radius of the exchange or YMCA. No t-t-timeframe is suggested in advance. Also. I took a bath. Recently. You are trying. To get rid of me?" 

He's giving her sad-face. She can sense Mikey losing his strength in this situation. She pinches him again, and gives John sad-face right back, because she will _not_ be manipulated by him and his big stupid princess eyes being like limpid azure pools or whatever. Also, when he says he took a bath _recently_ he means like _five days ago_ , and that is _nasty-ass behavior_ and should _not_ be enabled. 

"John, we're not trying to get rid of you, we're _worried_ about you. You were acting _so weird_ the other night, we're just trying to make sure that you take care of yourself." 

He goes all stiff. "S-s-sorry," he says. Then "I will go. To the YMCA. At 3:15. Then I will go to the b-b-b-bakery. I will drink coffee for 15 minutes. Then I will walk to pick you up from school. This will provide you with one hour and t-t-t-ten minutes to do the s-s-secret th-th-thing you want to d-d-do." He glares at them, and his head twitches. "You get up to anything fuckin' stupid and I'll kick your asses so hard I'll score a fuckin' goal." Then he stands up and climbs out the window again, like he's got some important shit to do and doesn't have any more time for them. Well, that's fine. He can be like that. Lily does not care. 

"Well," she says. "I guess that went pretty well?" 

"Uh, _no_?" Mikey says. "I _told_ you we should have told him it was boot removal day."

"Oh my God, we're trying to _distract_ him, not give him a panic attack," Lily says. _No one_ likes boot removal day. 

John is so, so messed up. 

They use their one hour and ten minutes to go to the library. They get a computer, and Lily types "metal arm captain america fight dc" into YouTube. 

"What?!" says Mikey. 

"Shh," says the librarian. 

Lily says "Just watch it."

In the video, John rips a car door off of its hinges and then fires a rocket launcher. 

" _What the fuck?!_ " Mikey says. 

The librarian says "Am I going to to have to ask you to leave?"

"No ma'am," Lily says. "I'm sorry about my brother. He has impulse control problems from being a crack baby." 

The librarian narrows her eyes. Lily adds "He was adopted."

"Hooker, _you_ were the crack baby, my mom worked at a _bank_ ," says Mikey.

They get kicked out.

They sit on a bench outside of the library. 

"He said that only one guy could stop him, and that guy wasn't going to be a problem," Lily says. "It has to be Captain America, right? John's going to, like, _finish the job_." 

Mikey is crying, because he _loves_ John, and John is on the _FBI most wanted list_ for _terrorism_ , and neither of them knows what to do. It's going to have to be Lily who makes the call, though. Because sure, Lily loves John too, and she wants him to be ok. But Mikey, he's younger than her, and he's only been in the system since he was 12 and his mom died. Lily's been in and out since she was six years old, ever since her abuela had to go into the home. She knows about not getting attached, especially not to addicts. You can want the best, you can have love for somebody, but you don't go around getting attached. Mikey just hasn't learned that yet. 

"We've got to tell someone," she says. 

"We can't call the fucking cops on _John_ ," Mikey says. "He'll go to _prison_ , he's too _crazy_ to go to prison, they won't follow the _no touching rule_ , someone will try to _touch_ him and he'll _kill everyone in the prison_ and he'll get the _electric chair_. Oh my God, _fuck you, you snitch_." 

"Mikey, you are a _trial upon my patience_ ," Lily says. "Stop being so hysterical, you are acting like a _stereotype_."

" _You're_ acting like a _bitch_ ," Mikey says. 

This boy, Lily swears, she does _not_ deserve this. "Listen, stupid, I don't think we should call the cops, I think we have to talk to the big guy." 

_"Santa Claus?"_

" _Captain America_ , dummy. Listen, it's perfect, he's supposed to be all nice, right? Like he's super nice and helps little old ladies across the street and stuff? So if we find him and I'm like hey, me and my little brother got rescued by this guy, and he's _really sweet_ and takes care of us and brings us to school and everything when before we were just sad starving orphans living in an alley and about to _freeze to death_. But he's got like, _mental illnesses_ , so he gets _really confused_ , and we think maybe he tried to hurt you one time when he was _really confused_ , and do you think you could please save our foster daddy who we _really really love_ so we don't have to starve to death, Mr. Captain America sir?" 

Mikey looks a little less mad. "Yeah, ok, but how are we supposed to talk to Captain America? Message him on Facebook or something? _Tweet_ at him?" 

"You can't _tweet_ at Captain America, he's like a _hundred_ years old, old people don't do that. What, do you think he's always snapchatting all the time or something? I bet he doesn't even have a normal phone," Lily says. "Wait, he's _really old_. Do you think he has, like, a landline? With the number in the phone book and everything?" 

They look at each other. 

"Like, under A for America?" Mikey says. 

"You seriously think that his last name is America? It's Rogers. Like, Frank Rogers, something like that. Aren't you supposed to be learning about this stuff in history class right now?"

"I don't actually _pay attention_ ," Mikey says. "You're like some kind of _superhero nerd_ , like those people who go to meet the Avengers.” 

"Oh my God, you are _so ignorant_ , Mikey, no wonder you can't get a job at McDonalds," Lily says. "Don't you have your history book with you?" 

Mikey does. They pull it out, then find the little section in the WWII chapter about Captain America. Steven Grant Rogers, it says, and there's a picture. 

Lily frowns. "Does he look familiar to you?"

"All black-and-white people look the same," Mikey says. "He just looks old."

Lily takes out her phone, and pulls up the picture of John's boyfriend that they made him send to them the last time he brought them to Starbucks to steal wifi so Lily could download more music for him (Lily saw on tv about how scientists taking care of abandoned eagle babies will, like, dress up like eagles and do eagle shit so that the baby eagle doesn't get confused and think that it's a human, so she thinks maybe she _should_ download like some country music for him or something, but she _refuses_ , so right now John is all about The Weeknd. Also, she and Mikey showed him Hit the Quan, because they thought it would be funny, but he just Bert-faced at it for about 15 seconds and then _did the dance_ , and then rolled his eyes at them and said “It's not. _Hard_.” Mikey nearly died.). 

She uses the edit function to make the picture black and white. Then she puts her phone down on the textbook next to Captain America's picture. 

They stare.

"Oh, _shit!_ " Mikey says. " _Steve_. Steve is _so totally a white grandpa name, oh my God_ , it says he was born in _1918_. He's, like, _older than America_."

"Ugh, I am not even speaking to you about that, it's a good thing that John makes you go to school or you would be the most ignorant child on earth," Lily says. "Ok, but it totally makes sense, right? He said he _shot Steve_ , right? And he felt bad about it, so we helped pick out flowers for him, and John wrote that card? Do you think John is, like, _stalking_ him?"

"Girl, a crazy robot stalker man breaks into your apartment and takes a picture of you, do you smile for the camera?" 

"The picture could be from the internet," Lily says. "We could reverse image search it if you hadn't gotten us kicked out of the library. Do I look like I have wifi on this bench?" 

Mikey doesn't look impressed. "Fine, so then where did that leather jacket come from?"

"What, dude can rob drug dealers, but he can't go to the Nordstrom Rack and steal one jacket?" 

"Or maybe they're just _actually dating_ ," Mikey says. 

Lily rolls her eyes. "That is the stupidest thing I ever heard, I think that you _are_ a crack baby. Superheroes don't just, like, _date_ people who shoot at them." 

"Batman dates Catwoman," Mikey says. 

"Batman is a stupid bitch then, he's about to get his dumb ass robbed. You don't just invite some sexy criminal into your batcave, that's how all of your stuff gets jacked. Catwoman is going to walk right out with all of his Rolexes. Men are all _so dumb_ , and Batman isn't even _real_ , anyway," Lily says, and feels a little bit better. 

"John said that Steve is an idiot," Mikey says. "Maybe he's just _really dumb_ , and he can't tell that John is _completely crazy_ , and he's not going to be a problem because _Netflix and chill_."

Lily does _not_ know what's going to happen to this boy, he's like some sort of precious innocent baby who was raised in the woods and doesn't understand about the cruel realities of human nature or something, and he'll end up getting shot at the end and it'll be all sad and everyone else will learn a valuable lesson about tolerance. 

"Mikey, the dude has _super strength_ , if he was _that_ dumb the government would put him in a cage and never let him out, he would be like a _danger to society_ ," she says, and sighs. "We've really got to find him, if we could just talk to him --" 

"Who. Do you need to find." 

They both kind of scream a little. Lily slams the textbook shut. John wiggles the fingers of his metal arm at them. He's holding a cup of coffee in the other hand. "Hi," he says. "I. Can help. I am. Very good at tracking." 

"We know, John," she says. "You're like, the _best_ at tracking. But this is kind of, um, a personal project?"

He gives her his bitch-pleasiest look.

"That was very." He takes a second to find the word. "C-c-c- _condescending_. If you ever have to track someone. Across 600 kilometers of enemy terrain. _See if I fuckin' help_."

Neither Lily or Mikey really has anything to say about that.

"Hey, John," Mikey says weakly. "You look, um, really good."

Because oh, yeah; he's shaved again, for the second time in one week, and he's fixed up his hair in this little man-bun thing, which is new, and there's a little color in his face, like he actually ate something at that Russian bakery he likes instead of just drinking a million cups of black coffee with four packs of sugar in them and having weird silent dick-swinging contests with the scary mob enforcer dudes who hang out in there. Which would be great, because, like, he always _wins_ the dick-swinging contests, but if he wants to glare at other violent crazy people he could go stand outside of _literally any subway station in New York_ and do it for free, instead of paying for five cups of really terrible coffee first, so eating something too makes it seem like less of a waste.

“I wouldn't kick me oughtta bed,” John says, and _winks_. Lily kicks Mikey before he embarrasses himself. “Hey, you two finished doing your secret thing you're not telling me about? We gotta go to the grocery.”

He is doing _really_ well today. Lily is just kind of smiling at him, because who is she fooling, she's almost as dumb as Mikey is about foster daddy, and when he's all cute and funny and normal like this she gets so _excited_ , and then it's even worse when he starts shaking and twitching or forgetting how to speak English or forgetting _them_ , which is some scary shit, and has happened a few times. 

“I got something on my face?” John says.

“ _Beauty_ ,” Mikey says.

John stares blankly for a second, then laughs, a big, loud, hoarse laugh like a dog barking. It's horrible. Lily loves it. 

“Jesus fuckin' Christ, kid,” he says, shaking his head. “Shit you say. When I was a kid if I'd said that to some guy I woulda gotten my face kicked in.”

“Where'd you grow up, anyway?” says Lily. “I mean, where in the city.” Because obviously dude is a _New Yorker_ , and would probably stab you or something if you said he wasn't.

“Brooklyn, down Vinegar Hill way. Used to be a rough neighborhood. Christ, I knocked out so many teeth when I was coming up I could've made a necklace.”

Lily can _believe_ it.

“Come on, let's get moving, chop fuckin' chop. I don't know what's happened to the discipline in this unit, I'm falling down on my fuckin' job.” 

They go to the grocery store. John's promised that they can stay in their new squat for a little longer than normal, that he's “handled the situation,” and last night he was up late doing some weird shit climbing around on the building next door with wires and stuff, but now they have _electricty_ , even though they're only allowed to plug in one thing at a time. So John gets a little hot plate and a pot, and a bag of oatmeal and a bag of rice and some sugar and a can of coffee, and then he stalks off to the produce section, and Mikey and Lily are running around and grabbing, like, _ramen noodles_ , and _mac and cheese_ , and all of this other stuff that they haven't gotten to eat in ages. And it's extra-good because they were spending so much money on takeout that John was starting to look a little stressed-out every time he went to grab some cash. Lily's pretty sure that he actually really hates doing stickups, he just does that shit because he's an addict. But he's got more dope right now than even _he_ could use up for a long time, so if they can keep from spending too much money then maybe he can just chill for a while and not shoot anybody.

That night John fixes them the ramen noodles with sliced-up cabbage and an egg and stuff, so it's maybe a little healthier than just the regular kind. He's got the eggs and cabbage just, like, sitting out, because they don't have a fridge or anything, but he just says “They'll keep.” 

He's eating his noodles with a pair of leftover chopsticks from Chinese takeout: they always give them too many chopsticks because John orders two boxes of white rice just for himself and eats it plain. He's fixed his noodles plain, too, and boiled them extra long so they're really soft and gross. His stomach is just as fucked-up as the rest of him: Lily's seen him trying to silently puke in alleys and stuff like a hundred times. 

“I t-t-talked to Huang Ayi today,” he says.

Huang Ayi is the million year old lady who runs the shitty fake dollar store a couple of blocks away where they always go to buy cheap toothpaste. She _loves_ John, because he's always flirting with her in Chinese and telling her how young she looks and stuff. If an actually hot dude flirts with John he just gets his hot ass glared at until he runs away crying, but get John in a room with some old lady and he comes over all Champagne Papi, all smooth and shit.

“She says,” he says. “She can p-p-p-pay me. To help her at the store. She says. Part time. Under the t-t-t-t-table.”

“Oh my God, foster daddy!” Mikey says. “You're going straight? Like, for _real_? Wait, does that mean we can move into a real apartment now?”

John's head twitches, and he laughs a little. “I won't. I won't earn much money, kid. Robbing drug dealers is a helluva lot more lucrative than moving b-b-boxes at the dollar store. I might have to s-s-s-supplement our income sometimes.”

“No, don't,” Lily says quickly. “I can work at McDonalds again, it's not a big deal – ”

“Like _hell_ you're working at McDonalds,” John says, and suddenly he's _all there_ , all pissed-off focus, no slurring, no stammering. “Like _hell_ I'm letting a fucking _kid_ pick up my slack because I'm a piece of shit fucking Looney Tune who can't hold down a goddamn job. You are _going to school_ , Lily, and you are _keeping your goddamn grades up_ , and you're getting into _fucking_ CUNY if I have to _shoot the fucking dean, so help me fuckin' God._ ”

Everyone's quiet for a second.

“You're not a piece of shit, John,” Mikey says. His voice is all small and wavery. “You're _not_. My real dad – ” he swallows hard. “My real dad's been in prison my whole life. He got three strikes for selling weed when I was two. He doesn't even know what I _look_ like anymore. My mom took care of me by herself, and now she's dead. You're all I've got.”

Lily says “My dad's a meth head. My mom, too. They tried, you know? Like, they'd show up sometimes with presents for me and shit when I was little, and I'd always think _wow, they're coming home for real this time_. I used to get so mad at my abuela for telling them they had to leave. She was the only person who ever really gave a shit about me, and she's got Alzheimers now. They had to put her in a home. You guys are all I've got too.”

John swallows. His head twitches. He says “My dad. He was. He was a drunk. Used to b-b-b-beat on me and my sisters. Couldn't hold down a fuckin' job for more than a few months when I was a kid. Used to get – used to get mad at my ma for being a Jew, for talking like she did and everything, like he didn't fucking _marry_ her knowing what she was. He used to get drunk and call me a little fucking k-k-k-k- _kike_. Then I grew up and moved out, and he dries out. Gets a job. Buys a family fuckin' car. Like he never broke my arm throwing me down a s-s-s-staircase. Like it all never _happened_.” He takes a deep breath, and stares at the floor. “S-s-s-sorry.”

Lily guesses they're all pretty fucked up.

“John,” she says. “You have sisters? Do they still live in Brooklyn? Could you, like, go visit them or something?” The thought of John having family to visit is getting her all excited already.

He smiles a little. “Guess I could. Think they're all in Green-Wood now.”

“Oh my God,” Mikey says.

“All of them?” Lily says. “What – what _happened_?”

John leans back onto his blanket and reaches for his backpack. His hand is shaking pretty badly while he pulls out his gear. His latest dope has a stamp with two pistols on the bag. _Shooters._

“Time, sweetheart,” he says. “Time happened.”

 

*****

 

The creature lies down on its blanket.

To lie down on the blanket at 11:00 PM is part of the newly- implemented physical health maintenance regulations. The creature has implemented these new regulations as a tactical response to the information, acquired from the large mirror in Rogersstevengrant's bathroom and the look of horror on Rogersstevengrant's face when he saw its body, that it looks _like it just got out of a goddamn camp, holy shit, about an inch away from giving up the fuckin' ghost._

The physical health maintenance regulations are as follows:

1\. The body is to be provided with at least 800 calories of digestible carbohydrates per 12 hours of light activity. Guidelines for combat rations will be implemented after further review.

2\. The body is to be provided with at least one liter of potable water per 12 hours of light activity.

3\. The body is to be placed in a secure location suitable for sleep for at least five hours per 24-hour day.

4\. The physical fitness of the body is to be maintained via daily adherence to the routine of exercises designed by the Soviet handlers to be performed by the Asset on missions longer than two days in duration.

5\. The creature is not to intentionally damage the body using methods including but not limited to: cutting the body with knives, burning the body with lighters, attempting to separate the left arm from the body, injecting the body with lethal doses of heroin, injecting air into the body's veins, jumping off of the Brooklyn bridge or any other local landmark, pouring gasoline onto the body and setting it alight, or shooting the body through its fucked-up piece of shit brain.

Preliminary results of the newly implemented physical health mandates: positive.

It shoots up.

It feels --

Not much.

_Fuck this fucking body with a goddamn bayonet, how much more is it going to fucking take?_

It listens to music for 15 minutes.

 _Drugs started feeling like it's decaf_ , says the singer.

Too goddamn accurate.

It turns off the music. It closes its eyes.

Sleep is problematic. The body is tense. The brain is exhibiting abnormal activity levels. The brain continuously produces images of Rogers, Steven Grant.

_Maybe because you haven't jerked off in seventy years._

...

Accurate.

The Goddamn Kids are both asleep. The creature takes its blanket and goes out into the hallway.

He needs some goddamn privacy.

It lies down on the blanket and pulls out its phone and looks at the picture that he took of Steve.

_Hey there, sweetheart._

He undoes his belt. Takes a deep breath.

_You got this, champ._

This behavior is against protocol.

_Who the fuck's gonna find out?_

Begin engagement. Think about Rogers, Steven Grant.

_Steve._

Steve. Think about Steve. Think about Steve fucking you. He grabs you by the by the hair and pushes you against the wall and _if you resist he'll break more of your teeth_ \--

Mission abort.

To be fucked is _highly_ negative.

Re-engage. Steve is lying on the bed and you kiss a line down his back and push into him and _your handler says make her scream, soldier_ and _abort abort abort_ \--

To fuck someone else is _highly, highly_ negative, there is _nothing_ more negative, _never never never again_ , and _did your dick get hard when you killed Sara Ruth Goldberg, did you like seeing her with her brains blown out_ and _please God please oh God have mercy on me au secours au secours au secours–-_

Mission abort.

Deep breaths.

Think about things that are positive. Riding on the subway. Looking at the water. A clean shot through the eye. Eating dinner with the Goddamn Kids. Going to the park. Tupac. Strawberry milkshakes. China White. Steve.

Deep breaths.

You are safe. You are safe.

Breathe.

Re-engage.

Steve is positive. Think about Steve. His hands. Positive. His voice. Positive. His eyes. Very positive. His mouth. _Highly_ positive. His chest.

 _Extremely_ positive, _fuck_ , I've been wanting to get my mouth on those fucking titties since the Western front -

Positive. The mission is go. He slides his hand down his pants and palms himself a little, just feeling out the situation, and _Christ_ , he's hard, he hasn't been this hard since _nineteen seventy fucking six_ , he didn't even know his dick could _do_ this anymore after Cambodia ( _don't think about Cambodia, don't think about Cambodia_ ). So all right, right on, jerkin' off, thinking about Steve. _God_ , Stevie, my little guy with his smart fucking mouth, want that mouth on me so bad, sweetheart, wanted it since I found out that was a thing that people could do with each other. He licks his palm and pulls his dick out and jerks it fast and hard, just how he likes it, and he thinks about Steve, thinks about his skinny little body, thinks about that big fucking tank of a body with those _shoulders_ and those _tits_. Yeah, ok, that works, _fuck_. Think about sucking on those titties, think about him getting down on his knees. He thinks about Steve blushing with his mouth stretched around Bucky's dick, and he comes so fast it's a fucking disgrace.

Then Buck just lies there and laughs, because _Christ_ , he's a disaster, he's a walking trash fire, he's an eight-car pileup, he's a threshing machine wrapped in a dead man's skin, and he feels better than he has since they ripped his soul out of his piece of garbage horrorshow of a body seventy fucking shitstained years ago. 

 

*****

 

Steve can't sleep.

He received his marching orders from Sam loud and clear (sometimes he's pretty sure that Sam is actualy his CO, and they're all just politely pretending otherwise for the sake of the chain of command), and he did what he was told. _Take a hot shower, put on your pajamas, have some hot milk or something, go to bed, stare at the ceiling._

Sam didn't tell him to do that last bit. Steve is improvising.

Sometimes Sam reminds him a whole lot of Peggy. Which is weird, he thinks: it's gotta be weird. 

God, _Peg_.

A fact that, if known to the public, would trigger the exchange of several million dollars in high-stakes betting pools: Steve is still technically a virgin. But.

When he jerks off he thinks about Buck. There, there it is, he can admit it. He's a big damn queer. Happy now, Sam?

But.

It was raining, in Paris, just after the city was liberated. That sounds maybe a little romantic. It wasn't. A city that's had a war fought in it can make all sorts of sludge when it rains. It'll invent new kinds of sludge that it didn't know about before. It'll surprise itself.

He was supposed to take Peggy out dancing. He didn't, of course. Maybe he should've pushed for it harder. But neither of them was too excited about the idea, what with the sludge and all. And the city having just been liberated. And the two of them still so unrealistically breathing.

Steve's been orbiting around Buck since he was seven years old. Buck's in there deep, stuck under Steve's fingernails, a warm pool in his bellybutton. He learned how to _want_ from him, figured out how to touch himself at the same time he was figuring out those sweet divots at the very base of Bucky's back, the little white stretchmarks at the top of the muscles in his calves. Thinking about him is too big of a habit to even think about breaking: it would be like trying to jerk off with some other guy's dick.

But. 

She got him down on the bed and climbed on top of him to kiss him, her little knees on either side of his hips. She smelled and tasted like everything good, after months of blood and death and Bucky acting like he could barely stand to look at him sometimes. She was heavy, and _Lord_ , that did things to him, the solid weight of her, his hands digging a little too hard into the meat of her hips, his own hips jerking up against her without his say-so.

“Peg,” he said “I used up my condom ration on my rifle barrel.”

She said “Was that a euphemism?”

“No, I mean, it's really for the rifle barrel, to keep the water – ”

“I know, Steve. I was only teasing you.” She sat back on her heels. “Well! That does rather put a damper onto things, doesn't it?”

“Doesn't have to,” he said, and turned red.

She smiled at him. “What exactly are you planning, Captain Rogers?”

“That's classified,” he told her. “Can you, uh, get off of me?”

It was Buck who told him about this. _“No, don't you make that face, Rogers, they go crazy for it, I swear. If you do it right she'll scream like a fuckin' cat.”_

She lay back on the bed. He reached up her thigh to slide her stocking down.

He reaches down to touch himself.

Buck had said _they_ go crazy for it, not _you'll_ go crazy for it. But _Lord_ , it was something else, his _face_ there, his mouth, the smell and the taste of it, how her thighs shook from it. He thinks about that. He thinks about her voice, her saying “Oh God, Oh God, Yes, just like that, _Steve_.” He thinks about how she yanked at his hair, and said “Stop, I don't want to finish yet. I want to _see_ you.” 

He thinks about how she unbuttoned his pants and smiled like she had just gotten a present. She thinks about how she unwrapped him like a present and looked at him like he didn't know a woman could look at a man. “Do you have even the faintest idea of how beautiful you are?” she said, and he blushed and said that it was just the serum, and she shook her head once, hard. “It's you,” she said. “You're a miracle.”

He thinks about how she guided his fingers to the right spot – _no, darling, a little higher_ – and he did the same for her – _um, maybe a little harder, I – yeah, yeah, like that, oh wow_ – and they got each other off, then just sat there and grinned like they had just done something spectacular, like they had just led the liberation, as proud of themselves as the streets of Paris were for inventing five new kinds of sludge.

He thinks about all of that now.

Then his brain drifts, like it always does.

If he had liked doing that for Peggy so much, would he like doing it for Buck?

He's watched a few pornos, the kind with girls and the kind with just two guys. He knows what a guy looks like with another guy's – when he's doing that. He tries to think about what _he'd_ look like doing that. On his knees, maybe. Buck could sit down on the edge of the bed and Steve could kiss the insides of his thighs a little the way he did for Peg. He'd always been such a strong, solid guy: there had been a lot to those thighs. Not anymore. _God_ , he's so thin now.

Not knowing if he's ok is like being crushed to death.

Ok, yeah, maybe he shouldn't think so much. Just – Peg. The smell of her, the taste of her, the spread of her hips, her soft heavy breasts, her laugh, her beautiful big brown eyes.

_Sam has big brown eyes._

No, _no_ , that's not appropriate. Sam's your _friend_ , he's not even _queer_ , you can't – 

Maybe just a little.

Ok, so, uh, Sam. Lord. Ok. His hands. He's got really nice hands, is all, big and gentle, and he has this way of looking at Steve like he's actually _listening_ instead of writing tweets about how he just talked to Captain America in his head. He tells the most ridiculous jokes and gives _really_ nice hugs, all tight and warm like he really means them, and you know that in bed he'd still have all of that warmth to him too, that he'd wrap one of those big hands around you and smile so you could see that – _God_ – that gap between his teeth. He'll be so good with Buck when they meet, so gentle and patient, and that is _not_ appropriate, that is _definitely_ not appropriate, thinking about your two best friends like that, that is _not_ something that you should be doing, and oh, _God_ , oh _no, Buck_ – 

Steve gets up and takes another shower.

Then he goes to paint.

He has a much better idea of what he's painting this time. It was Buck's idea, actually, something that he said to Steve the other day. Steve's been looking at a lot of comic books recently: the art is _beautiful_ , so much better than what they used to do, all of this great detail and perfect linework, the action bits blazing with energy. He tries to do something a little like that. He paints Sam, in his wings, racing upwards past a background of blocky grey skyscrapers, Sam in his red Falcon suit the most vibrant thing in the frame. He's grinning, laughing, caught up in the sheer joy of flying. In his right hand he holds a flaming sword. 

_Saint Michael the Archangel_ , he writes at the bottom of the canvas. _Patron of paratroopers._

Then he climbs back into bed and passes out.


	4. Hiroshima / Mon Amour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Black Widow drops a bomb. Bucky has a difficult morning. Steve and Sam go to school. The Goddamn Kids scope the perimeter. First encounters occur. A deal is struck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wee little warnings in this chapter for: indirectly phrased discussion of a suicide attempt/suicidal ideation, and a scene of past psychological abuse/torture.

Steve wakes up with a spy on his bed.

He says “ _StevenGrantRogersCaptain54985870_!” Then he says “Oh, geez. Hi, Natasha.”

He sits up, and rubs the back of his neck with one hand, very conscious of the fact that he's just in his boxers. She seems pretty conscious of the fact too. She's... gazing.

He says “I don't mean to be demanding, but I'm usually at my best if I'm given half an hour for a shower and a shave before I receive guests.”

Today she's dressed like she's heading to a yoga class. He wonders if she actually will, or if it's just some kind of urban camoflage. “The stubble suits you,” she says. “You should try growing a beard.”

Steve wrinkles his nose. “I know I'm named after the man, but I'd rather not look like Ulysses S. Grant.”

“You found him,” she says.

“Who, President Grant?”

She just looks at him. He sighs. “Yeah, I found him. I was going to tell you, but I guess I was worried I would jinx it if too many people knew about it. And then I lost him again, so it's not like it matters anyway.” He stands up, and then bends over to grab a clean-enough pair of sweatpants from the hamper. She kind of admires the view a little, and lets him see her doing it. He sighs. “I'd tell you to take a picture, but I've got a feeling that you already have.”

“There's a file on my personal computer,” she says, and lets her accent go a little Russian. “I look at it when I start questioning my decision to defect.” 

She follows him into the kitchen, then hops onto the counter to watch him put the coffee on. Her accent slides back into neutral. “You know, I don't think I ever saw an actual percolator before I met you.”

“They'll have them in all of the expensive coffee shops soon,” he says. “It'll cost more than pour-over. I'm a man ahead of my time.” 

They're quiet for a little while, just listening to the percolator. The smell of coffee curls out into the room. Steve contemplates the contents of his fridge, and then pulls out some eggs. “Hungry?”

She is. He takes the percolator off the stove and fixes them each a cup of coffee -- his black, hers with cream and sugar -- and she drinks hers while she watches him cook. She smiles when he passes her a plate. He's made her two eggs in the basket. She looks like she likes it a lot, and she even says so. “How sweet.”

“My ma used to fix that for me. I always thought it tasted better than just the eggs and toast separately.” He doesn't bother with making some for himself, just fries up four eggs and burns a small stack of rye bread in the toaster.

They sit at the kitchen table to eat. He likes his kitchen: there's good light, in the mornings. It occurs to him that he should buy some flowers, maybe a vase. It had looked nice before, with the morning sun on the flowers that Bucky had left for him. Like his apartment was a place where a real person lived. He offers Natasha the butter, but she shakes her head, and he starts slathering it on his own food. Natasha eyes his plate skeptically. “Black coffee and burned toast?”

“I like what I like,” he says. “Buck used to say it's because I'm a bitter pill.”

She doesn't smile. “I slept with him,” she says.

He freezes with the butter knife in mid-air. “What?”

“I slept with him,” she says again. “With the Winter Soldier. A few times in the sixties, I think.”

There's a little pause while he chews on that.

“You said,” he says, “That he was a ghost. A fairy tale. That you saw him once when he shot you.”

“I thought that the truth would be distracting,” she says. “It was irrelevant to the mission. And I didn't know who he was to you at the time. Besides, I knew he wouldn't remember me. He always used to forget me from mission to mission.”

“Well,” he says, “It isn't as if you're the only girl he ever fucked and then forgot.” Then his stomach drops. “Oh _Lord_ , Natasha, I am so, _so_ sorry, I have no idea what's gotten into me – ”

The corner of her mouth quirks up, just a little. “I do. And it's fine. I wouldn't now, you know.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Of course, I know, I know that you wouldn't. I'm so sorry – ”

“Don't,” she says. “It's fine.” She takes a bite of her egg in the basket. “The man I slept with, the Winter Soldier. His name was Aleksandr Krovopuskov, before his handlers decided that a ghost didn't need a name. Before Hydra acquired him and reprogrammed him he was a farmer's son from a small village west of Leningrad. He wasn't Bucky Barnes.”

“What was – ” he swallows. “What was he like?”

She considers for a moment. “Charming, when he was in his right mind. The best in the world at what he did, though he didn't enjoy it. Very foul-mouthed, with a terrible sense of humor. A romantic who liked to pretend that he was a cynic.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “You slept with Bucky Barnes.”

There's a silence. Her mouth quirks up again. “In my defense,” she says. “I had never met you, and would probably have tried to kill you if I had. And he didn't actually have 'property of S. G. Rogers' stamped on him.”

“It's not like that,” he says.

“Of course it is,” she says, but she says it very kindly. “Jealousy is a very normal emotion.” She says _that_ like maybe she's reciting it from a book.

“ _You_ don't get jealous,” he says.

“Well,” she says, “I'm not normal, am I?” 

She eats some more of her eggs. Steve tries to get down some of his toast. His heart's not really in it any more.

“He used to get confused, sometimes,” she says suddenly. “He would forget who he was. Or remember, I suppose. He'd get very – agitated. Sometimes it would help to calm him down if I spoke to him in English. If I called him James.” She takes a sip of coffee. “I know that you don't speak any Russian. But if he's not responding to Bucky, you should try calling him Sasha. It was his name for just as long as Bucky was.”

“Sasha,” Steve says. “Ok.” It's a nice name, he thinks. A little girly, but nice. He could call Buck that, if he had to. He doesn't think he could handle _Boris_ or something. He says “Thank you. For telling me.”

Her smile gets a little wider. “A small tip. His name is Aleksandr, but that's what a stranger would call him. Sasha is fine for friends. But in _intimate_ moments,” she says, and grins like a shark, “You should call him _Sashka_. He likes that.”

Steve buries his face in his hands, just for a second. She laughs: a soft, happy laugh. It's kind of nice.

They eat quietly for a while. Steve knows that he's drifting again. He doesn't realize at first how badly it's showing on his face. 

“What are you thinking about?” Natasha says. It sounds like the sort of question people ask to fill silences, but Natasha has never been a woman who goes in for that kind of thing. 

“Oh. Nothing,” he says.

The quiet stretches out again.

Into the silence he says "Sometimes I think about the Japanese soldiers. The ones from Hiroshima."

She just looks at him. Waiting.

"I just --" he stops. Starts again. "I found out about it after I got out of the ice. I never thought our side would do something like that, I guess. I thought we were -- I don't know. Better. But that's stupid, isn't it? No one's _better_ , not in a war. Not really." He puts his hands on the table. Looks at them for a bit in that good morning light. They're bigger than they used to be, the fingers thicker, the palms wider. They still startle him sometimes, after so much time. He hadn't minded them before. Thin wrists, long delicate fingers. " _Artist's hands_ ," Buck had said, when they were still so young. Kids. " _Fuck, Stevie, so good, you've got the smartest hands, so good to me --_ "

"I think about how it must have been, for them," he says. "For the soldiers. How the war ended but they had nowhere to go home to. Everyone -- gone. Everything burned."

He clenches his fists, then relaxes them. "Sorry," he says. "I'm being morbid. In a helluva mood this morning, I guess."

Her gaze is still so level. So calm. "Sam talks to vets for a living," she says. "He says you remind him of a Somali war orphan."

He snorts, a little shocked. "He's just messing around, you know how he is. You two talk about me?"

"Of course we do," she says. "And it isn't a joke."

He stares at her. " _Terrible_ things happened to those people."

"Steve," she says. "Terrible things happened to _you_."

"Not like what happened to you," he says. "Not like what happened to Buck. Not what like happened to _eleven million people_ during the war. I saw the camps, Natasha, you don't know what it was --" he stops. Swallows it back. "This -- " he gestures to himself. The miraculous body. "This isn't a tragedy. I've _seen_ tragedy. I know what it looks like. I just need --" he takes a breath. "I need to count my blessings more often, is all."

" _Fuck_ counting your blessings," she says crisply. "You need a good cry, some therapy, and a long vacation. Also to get laid. Not necessarily in that order."

He feels himself smile. "I feel like I should say something about pots and kettles."

"Of course I'm a hypocrite," she says. "That's not the point. The point is that you deserve to be happy."

"I've heard that they've got nice beaches in Thailand,” he says. There's something funny about the thought. Him on a beach. Drinking something out of a coconut.

"Not at this time of year. It's rainy season. Go to Indonesia, you'd love Bali. Go to Ubud. You can spend all day sketching rice paddies and visiting galleries and going on educational walking tours. Sasha can survey the terrain from the tops of coconut trees and drop down on hippies who are walking home by themselves at night."

"Oh," Steve says. "Is he coming with me?"

"Of course," she says. "You can't go on your honeymoon alone, can you?" 

He laughs at that a little. The silence stretches out, glassy and flat like a pool of water. He drops something into it.

“I want to – rest, sometimes.”

Ripples fan out from it. She just looks at him, quiet and still.

“It's – I haven't – I know that it's a sin to think it. But when I crashed the Valkyrie. That was –” he pulls in a breath. “And later. There wasn't any time. To try to – rest. There were aliens, there was Hydra. I was – I was _needed_. I couldn't stop. And now there's Buck, he _needs_ me, but if he's – if he's gone, if he won't let me help him, if he doesn't want me around, I don't know if I can – I just feel so tired, I'm so _tired_ –” 

She reaches out with two small hands and folds one of Captain America's fists inside of them. “Bali,” she says firmly. “You should go to Bali. They call it the Morning of the World, did you know that? It's warm there all year round. You can rent a little house in a village, somewhere nice and quiet where your neighbors will talk with you. The buildings back up right onto the rice fields, and the rice fields run into the mountains, and past the mountains there's the ocean. When you walk down the street you'll step in the offerings that people leave for the gods. The sidewalks are covered in flowers. There's art everywhere in Bali. Farmers set up galleries next to their fields. They'll be so many things for you to draw you won't have enough time in the day. You can grow that beard out. You can throw out your running shoes. You can use your shield as a fruit bowl. You can rest, Steve. You're allowed. You're _entitled_. The world won't burn down without you. I won't let it.”

He smiles, even though he knows that it's probably not very convincing. “You must really love that place, huh?”

When she smiles it doesn't really reach her eyes. He knows that that's a gift. She won't take off the mask completely, but she'll let him see where its edges are. “I've never been. But I like to imagine it.”

Once they've finished eating he sees her to the door. She lingers for a bit in the living room, looking at the paintings of Bucky and Sam. “They're beautiful,” she says, and he thrills a little at the praise. She doesn't give it lightly. “Is it a series?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I'm doing you next.” He hadn't realized it until he said it, but now he can visualize it, the whole painting coming to him at once. 

This time when she smiles it looks genuine to him. “Really? I can't see myself as a saint. Who will I be?”

“It's a surprise,” he says. “You can see when it's done.”

He starts it as soon as she leaves. This one he paints like a Rossetti, all brooding Victorian sentiment; it's a style that comes easily to him. He dresses her in her combat gear and places her in a rose garden at twilight, her body nearly swallowed up by the tangle of the vines. She looks back over her shoulder at the viewer, her gaze even and calm, a long thorn pinched between two of her fingers. Her face is pale and luminous, her hair a weighty auburn mass curling down to the back of her neck. In the center of her forehead there's a wound the color of the red roses that surround her. Stigmata. 

He steps back from the canvas. It needs more work. He already know what the legend will be, though. He wants to buy some gold paint to write it in, so that it will gleam out of the darkness of the painting. _Saint Rita. Protector of the lonely. Patron of impossible causes._

 

*****

The creature – 

The creature is having – 

_What?_

An adolescent male, American of African or West Indian descent. Approximately 160 centimeters tall, 50 kilograms in weight. Low threat.

“Foster daddy? What's wrong? Are you ok?”

«кто ты?»

“Oh, shit. Have you forgotten how to speak English again? It's _totally_ no big deal, we'll just do, like, charades.” He puts his hand on the creature's metal forearm.

The creature levels its pistol at his head.

«Не трогай меня. кто ты? На кого ты работаете?» 

The eyes widen. The heart rate accelerates. Fear response. He puts his hands up. “Lily,” he says. “Lily, _shit_ , it's John, it's happening again – ”

An adolescent female, American, ethnicity indeterminate upon preliminary observation: possibly of mixed native North American and East Asian descent. Approximately 170 centimeters tall, between 70 and 75 kilograms in weight. Low threat. 

“John,” She says. “It's us. That's Mikey. I'm Lily. We're at home. It's ok, John, no one's going to hurt you.”

Cognition error.

“ _Schnauze_!” it says. “你他妈的给我闭嘴!” It hits its temple hard with the left hand. Recalibrate. _Think, fucking_ think. _Where am I, where the fuck am I –_

“Tôi ở đâu?” it says. The adolescents don't answer. They only stare. It says it again, louder, because it (it's scared, it's fucking scared shitless, he's not supposed to be here, he's supposed to be in the tank, they'll really do it this time, they'll take more parts of him like they said they would, and it – 

_“I'm all for it, the thing's getting out of control, it nearly_ bit _me when I tried to put the tube in yesterday. It works for dogs, doesn't it? What do you think, soldier, do you think you'd be better behaved if you were neutered?”_

_The tech is smiling. The handler strokes its hair. It leans into the touch._

_The handler is kind._

_The hand tightens in the hair. “Answer his question, soldier.”_

_It says “Insufficient intelligence.”_

_The hand loosens. The handler rubs the Asset's neck. His hand is warm. His hand is on the Asset's skin. It feels –_

_The asset is good. It will not whimper._

_It whimpers a little. It leans into the touch. It doesn't want anything. Wanting things is noncompliant._

_It thinks that maybe there will be more touching if it is good._

_“Oh, lovie, do you not understand that word? It means we're going to cut your balls off. Will you be a good boy for me after we've cut your balls off?”_

_The asset knows how to answer this question._

_“Yes, sir,” it says. It will be good._

_“You're a sick bastard, Wells,” says someone else. Everyone is laughing. They are happy._

_The handler strokes a hand down its back. “Good boy,” he says._

_The asset is good._

 

– needs to know its current coordinates to find its extraction point. 

“ _Tôi ở đâu_?” it shouts, and aims the pistol toward the female.

“John,” the female says. “Please, _please_ put the gun away, you're _scaring_ us – ”

 

“ _Shit_.” Bucky flicks the safety on, drops the pistol onto the floor, kicks it away from him with his boot. “ _Jesus_ , you're just fucking _kids_.”

The girl's shoulders slump. The boy – Christ, he's just a _little_ guy, this skinny little doe-eyed black kid who looks about twelve, and Buck had a fucking _gun_ pointed at him – looks like he's about to start bawling. Bucky looks between them. “Where the fuck am I? How did I get here? Am I in _America_?”

The girl frowns. “Um, yeah, you're in New York.” Her frown deepens. “John? Do you, uh, recognize us?”

New York. He's in New fucking York. He wants to cry. He wants to _scream_. Because he did it, that little bug-eyed fuck finally did it. Buck's snapped. He's lost the fuckin' plot. New fucking York, Christ, of _course_ it is. 

“Who the hell is _John_?” he says. Then, “Sorry, kid, I don't recognize you, and I ain't about to beat around the bush to make a fuckin' hallucination f-f-f-feel better.” He stops. Frowns. “W-w-w-w—”

 _Jesus fucking Christ._

“What's h-h-happening to m-m-m-m—”

He feels a weird need building in him, urgent and overwhelming, like knowing you're about to sneeze. _Move your head._

He jerks his head hard to the right, hard, like he's trying to shake off a fly. For a second there's relief, and then it starts again, _move your head_ , and he does it again, but then the relief barely comes before it's happening again, and again. The kids are gaping at him like he's something in a fucking zoo, but he can't stop, _he can't fucking stop_ , and then another urge rises up over the first one, an unbearable need to grunt deep in his chest. So he does it, Christ, he fucking _does_ it, and then the two urges are coming on top of each other fast and hard, and he knows, shit, he _knows_ that he must look like something that just escaped out of fuckin' Broadmoor, but his body is like a car with the brake lines cut, and between the twitching and grunting he barely manages to choke out _“H-h-h-h-help m-m-m-me – ”_

“We have to bring him to the hospital, he's like having a _seizure_ or something,” the little guy says. He's crying, and that doesn't make any sense; Buck's never even _seen_ this kid before.

“We can't bring John to the _hospital_ , they'll call the cops on him the second they see his arm,” the girl says. 

_My arm?_

He looks down and –

_Oh God._

Oh, _fuck_ , what the _fuck, what did they do to me, get it off me get it off me getitoffgetitoffgetitoff –_

“ _Steve_ ,” the girl is saying. “John, do you want us to get Steve?”

Steve. Steve's here, he's in New York, Buck could see him, he could _touch_ him. Steve. He'll know – well, he won't have a fuckin' _clue_ about what to do, but he'll square his little jaw and set his skinny shoulders and do whatever he has to, and just seeing him, _fuck_ , just _seeing_ him would be medicine, even if all of this is nothing but more weird shit his brain's cooking up on that fucking table. 

“P-p-p-p-p-p- _please_ ,” he says, amazed when he gets the word out. “S-s-s-s-s-steve – ” and then the storm in his brain gets closer and – 

 

*****

 

As it turns out, it's easier to get information on planned acts of terrorism out of hardened Hydra agents than it is to get a middle-aged school administrator to tell you a damn thing about two kids who may or may not attend their school and may or may not be currently playing house with a strung-out Russian super-assassin with Game of Thrones hair. Even the full force of the Captain America Voice can't crack these people. At one point Steve goes so far as to lean over one lady's desk a little and say “Ma'am, this may be a matter of national security,” but all that gets them is the most pitying look Sam's ever seen outside of a hospital or open mic night.

“I'm very sorry, Captain Rogers, but in that case I'm afraid you'll have to come back with a warrant,” she says, and then offers them each a lollipop. Sam accepts, because Mrs. Wilson did not raise the kind of fool who turns down free lollipops. Steve politely refuses, because Sam's pretty sure that right now Steve _hates_ lollipops, along with school administrators, the Great State of New York, and possibly freedom itself (incredibly endearing thing number 47 about Steve: despite being capable of joking about his own image, he really, genuinely cares about _freedom_ , and _democracy_ , and _liberty and justice for all_. Like, he _thinks_ about that shit, and if you express any kind of cynicism about that fact he'll look you right in the eye and say something bone-crushingly sincere like “I feel as if someone who's been given the gifts and responsibilities that I have has the _duty_ to think seriously about that kind of thing,” and you have to take a minute to keep yourself from just squeezing him until his earnest little head pops right off).

The instant they step into the hall Steve slumps like he just found out about the ending to Old Yeller (Sam has made an executive decision re: exposing Steve to sad animal stories, which is that no one is allowed to do it ever. The man doesn't need anything else putting strain on that big soft oozy heart of his. Even Stark agrees, which is why all ASPCA ads in Stark Tower are now automatically replaced with one of those heartwarming cereal commercials with the happy interracial couples and their adorable little moppets.). Sam punches him lightly in the shoulder, which was a bad idea, because it feels a bit like how he imagines lightly punching the Lincoln Memorial would feel. He rubs his knuckles surreptitiously. Then he says “Man, this is a _minor setback_. It's not stopping us from lurking around outside like a couple of creeps to see if he shows up. And if he doesn't, we'll just try another school tomorrow.”

Steve doesn't look impressed. They start walking. Sam says “Hey, you _lied_ to that lady in there. I thought you weren't supposed to do that.”

“You're mixing me up with George Washington again,” Steve says. “I know that it's confusing. If you're trying to keep us straight, the main differences are that he was the father of our country, and I have all of my own teeth.”

“Wow. You are saltier than a damn pretzel today,” Sam says. Steve looks a little ashamed of himself, which looks a lot like how golden retriever looks right after it pulls a ham off of the dining room table. 

Then the bell rings, and the hallway floods with kids. Steve's chugging along toward the exit like the world's blondest steamboat, smaller craft just getting sucked along in his wake. A few kids are staring up at Steve like “who _is_ this familiar-looking giant white man, and why is he gleaming with virtue next to my locker?” when suddenly one of them says “Yo, that's the _Falcon_ , man!” and the world explodes. 

Sam wonders if this is what Justin Beiber feels like all the time: if so, that would explain a lot. It's probably hard to make healthy decisions when your ears are ringing like Sam's are right now. The poor kid probably has permanent tinnitus at this point. Steve, of course, handles it like a pro: smiling for selfies and signing notebooks and all the while edging the two of them slowly down the hall and toward the exit. Eventually the crowd starts to thin out a little, because even two superheroes aren't enough to keep a bunch of kids in school for too much longer than they have to be there. 

Then Sam has a _brilliant_ idea, because, of course, he's a tactical genius. 

“Hey,” he says to the nearest group of kids. “We're actually here looking for a couple of kids. Mikey and Lily. They'd be new, like maybe just got here about a month ago? Do you guys know if they go here?”

Shrugs all around. They're exiting the building now, blinking into the bright afternoon sunlight. It's one of those high-definition October days that make you want to do it up like a Land's End catalog. Make a fire, drink a hot toddy, stride through the woods with some nice rosy-cheeked white folks in flannel and sturdy shoes. Sam casts Steve a speculative look. Steve's a confirmed city boy, and once told Sam that he had “done more than enough camping during the war,” but Sam thinks it might be time for him to try it again. They could rent a cabin, invite the other Avengers: hell, Sam's got a few buddies who'd love to meet Steve and could probably manage to teach him how to fish or something without asking for his autograph first. Clint could shoot them a deer, Natasha could disembowel it: it'll be great. Sam's getting all invested, thinking about where in the Adirondacks they should go, when one of the kids pipes up. “Wait, you guys are looking for Lily and her brother? Their dad's right there, why don't you just ask him?”

Steve's face goes through about 917 expressions in under a second.

They look over.

Barnes is looking – not great. Yeah, Steve had told him, but it's rough to look at in person after having just seen that painting of him looking so young and handsome and _alive_ before Hydra got ahold of him. He's skinny as hell, his grayish skin pulled tight over his too-high cheekbones. He looks – _ghostly_. Because that body looks too thin, too sick, too _fragile_ to be functioning, but from all the way across the school yard you can see the energy thrumming through him, like maybe he's some kind of poltergeist running just on the pure force of how pissed off he is. Because he is clearly _mad as hell_ , and he's coming at them now with this smooth, relentless gait that makes him look like something halfway between a panther and a goddamn tank. Sam gets the feeling that if you threw an obstacle in his path – like an 18 wheeler, say – he'd just roll right over it without even noticing. 

He comes up to Steve, gets into his space a little, puts them almost chest-to-chest. Steve's posture shifts slightly, and though Sam can't see it from this angle – which Barnes for sure knows full well – he'd bet anything that Steve currently has a Glock jammed up into some delicate areas. “Who the _fuck_ are you,” Barnes hisses. He has a Russian accent. “And what the _fuck_ do you want with my kids?”

The kids standing near them kind of scatter. Sam thinks that they'd probably normally be yelling “ _fight_ ,” but that they know enough about _Lily's dad_ to know that that's one hell of a bad idea. Sam would be pretty freaked out too, if it weren't for how Barnes sounded just now. Because that wasn't the Winter Soldier talking. Sam's heard guys talking like that before. That was a _parent_ , a messed-up vet who loves his kids and can't stop seeing blown-up Iraqi babies behind his eyelids. Dude sounds _scared_ , but also like he's ready to go after anyone who might be a danger to his kids and take them apart like they're made of Legos.

Sam holds his hands up a little, and gives his best calming smile. “Hey, man, sorry; we didn't mean to freak you out. You told Steve the other day that you pick up Mikey and Lily after school every day, so we thought we'd come say hi and see how you're doing. Steve's been worrying about you. That's all.”

Barnes' eyes flick between Sam and Steve. Assessing. They settle on Steve, or on a spot a little to the left of him. His head gives a hard jerk to the right, and he makes a weird grunting noise in his chest. The head thing happens a couple more times, along with the grunts. Steve looks like he's about to shatter into a million pieces.

The little flurry of tics dies down. Bucky says «кто вы? я знаю тебя?» 

“ _No_ ,” Steve says, and that's the Captain America voice, no messing around. “We're not doing this again, Buck. Come on, buddy, you can do this. I'm Steve, you _know_ me. _Sasha_. Look at me, c'mon.” Then Sam almost falls on his ass, because Steve starts speaking _Russian_. “Cаша, ты знаешь меня. меня эовут Steve. ты знаешь меня.” 

Barnes blinks hard, and jerks his head again, the sound of Captain America coming over all commie apparently just as weird for him as it is for Sam. Then he frowns. “ _Steve_?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, as the Winter Soldier kind of stumbles forward and buries his face into Captain America's shoulder. “Hey, Buck. Hey.” He lifts up one of those big paws of his and curls it gently around the back of Barnes' neck. “Bad day?”

“F-f-f-fuckin' _terrible_ ,” Barnes mumbles, and does that grunting thing again. Steve rubs his back a little.

“That's new, huh? That, uh, sound you just made.” 

“Yeah. 'm going crazier, champ. Fuckin' losing it for g-g-g-good, this time.”

“You're not,” Steve says. “You're not crazy. I got you. We're fine, ok? We're gonna be ok.”

They sort of cling to each other for a bit longer, and Sam thinks _Oh man, this is it, here it comes, cue up the violins and pull out your hankies_! But then Barnes pulls back, dry-eyed and completely in control of himself, and Steve squares his shoulders, and they're just two stoic, stubborn-ass old soldiers again. Steve gestures toward Sam. “Buck, this is my friend Sam. You kind of, uh, met before.”

Barnes gives Sam a quick once-over, then cracks a little grin. “I feel like I p-p-probably didn't make the best first impression. J. B. Barnes, nice to meetcha.” He holds out a hand to shake. Sam takes it, feeling a little off-balance at how suddenly _with it_ the guy is. 

“Nice to meet you too, man. Do you, uh, go by J. B.? Or do I call you Bucky?”

“I ain't too p-p-particular,” Barnes says, “But most guys used to call me Buck,” and it takes all of Sam's self-control not to laugh, because the combination of the hair and the haunted eyes and the thousand-yard stare and that _accent_ is like Apocalypse Now starring Groucho Marx. Sam thinks he loves it. Barnes suddenly looks a little shy. “Or, uh, Sasha's all right,” he says, and he steals a little glance at Steve like he's asking for permission. Steve just smiles at him like a damn sap, which Sam thinks might be some kind of reflex. ABPR: Automatic Bucky Proximity Response.

“Let's go with Sasha,” Sam says, because he gets the feeling that it's what Barnes would prefer at the moment, at least from a stranger. 

Barnes does his little head-jerk thing, then says “I. Remember. You had.” He pauses for a second. “ _Wings_?”

His speech is coming out slow and a little slurred now, which is interesting, along with the stammer and the tics. Sam's seen the pictures of what they did to him with that chair, and he's heard of other vets ending up with neurological issues from brain injuries, though he's never actually run across it at work. You'd think that whatever weird serum they'd juiced the guy up with would have helped, though. Maybe all it did was keep all of that shit from actually killing him, and _man_ is that not what Sam wants to be thinking about right now. “Yeah,” he says. “I have wings. You kind of roughed up the original pair, but now I've got an even better set to replace them, so I pretty much owe you one.”

“Shit,” Barnes says. “I th-th- _threw_ you. Off of that – ” He frowns. “ _Flying boat_?” 

“They call them helicarriers. Weird as hell, right?” Sam says, because he can _sympathize_ with confusion over all of that wacky SHIELD foolishness. Barnes grins.

“I've seen fuckin' w-weirder. Sorry for roughing you up, though. Be a real pity if I'd m-m-messed that cute face up any.”

“Buck!” says Steve, all scandalized. Sam is not paying attention to him right now, though, because he's thinking about how he's going to have to get Barnes to write that down and sign it so he can hang it up in his office next to Steve's endorsement of his wisdom. Sam Wilson: Captain America Tested, Bucky Barnes Approved. No need to push and shove, ladies, just form an orderly line to the right.

“What?” Bucky says. “It's t-t-two thousand and fuckin' f-f-fifteen, champ, I can fuckin' _look_. Not all of us can store our dicks in the sacristy and dust 'em off for holy days of obligation.” 

Sam _likes_ this guy.

“I didn't say you can't _look_ at him,” Steve says. “Heck, _I_ look at him, but you can't just – ” he stops when his brain catches up to what he just said, and blushes harder than Sam's ever seen him blush. Which is saying something, because the guy turns red like a damn traffic light. 

“Oh _Lord_ , Sam, I, uh – ”

Sam holds up a hand. “Don't you even, Steve. Don't you ruin this moment for me. Right now, I believe that Captain America and the dreamiest Howling Commando both think I am one _fine piece of ass_ , and I want to continue believing it, because it is _good for my self esteem_ , Steve. In fact, I want you two to write up a signed statement to that effect and give it to me for Christmas. Which is coming soon. Don't worry, I'll remind you.”

Barnes says “Shit, I'll make you a v-video, since you think I'm so dreamy,” and _winks_.

Sam _really_ likes this guy.

“Hell, wait until you meet Mikey,” Bucky says. “This fuckin' kid, I s-s-swear to God, things he says to me would m-make a hooker blush. And I'd fuckin' know,” he adds, which is – potentially worrying. Sam makes a mental note to try to gently dig into that a little once they know each other a bit better. If Barnes has been turning tricks in addition to the other shit he has going on then he'll need, at least, to be using condoms and getting regular blood tests, because even if he can't get sick himself Sam does not want to know what happens to a strain of HIV that's been happily incubating in _supersoldier serum_. He's assuming, for the sake of his mental health, that the Winter Soldier would be too paranoid about being drugged or sedated against his will to inject himself with needles that someone else may have used or handled, because the possibilities here are giving him cold shivers.

“Where _are_ the goddamn kids, anyhow?” Barnes says suddenly. Sam and Steve both look around. The sidewalk in front of the school is pretty quiet, now: most of the kids have already started to head home, but none of them have come over to Barnes. Steve frowns. 

“Maybe they saw me and Sam and got spooked?”

Barnes shakes his head. “Two of 'em are fuckin' f-f-fearless, like raccoons or something.” He's tensed up, his eyes scanning the street in front of them. “T-too smart to skip school and not make it back before the b-b-bell, know I'll k-kick their asses for skipping.”

Steve speaks softly. “Where do you think they might be, Buck?”

Maybe his moment of clarity has ended, or maybe the stress of the missing kids is upsetting something inside his head, because suddenly the guy who was just flirting with Sam and busting Steve's balls is gone, switched out like a light. “Insufficient intelligence. Presumed dead or captured.” His eyes are giving Sam the heebie-jeebies; he's never seen a conscious human being look less _there_. 

Steve keeps talking to him as if nothing's changed, as if Sergeant Barnes hasn't very clearly left the building. “By who? Hydra? Are you sure they couldn't just be out messing around somewhere? Maybe they missed their train back.”

Bucky cocks his head a little to the right, his face completely blank. He looks like he's – processing. _Thinking_ would maybe be too strong a word. “Possible. In this case. They would attempt to find a wireless signal. In order to contact me.”

“Ok, Steve says. “So let's get you into wireless so you can check and see if they're trying to reach you.”

Barnes gives a short little nod of his head. “Acknowledged.”

Sam thinks he might wince a little. Steve doesn't miss a beat, just gives Barnes' shoulder a little squeeze. “I know you're worried, Buck, but you told us yourself that they're smart kids. I'm sure they can take care of themselves.”

“Not from. _Hydra_ ,” Barnes says, and suddenly there's a _person_ there again, and Sam's kind of wishing that there wasn't. Because now what he's seeing is pure, animal _terror_ behind those dead eyes, and it makes him want to crawl under the bed and never come out. 

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says, so soft and gentle Sam can barely stand it. “Hey. Can you take a deep breath for me? You're gonna make yourself pass out.”

Now Sam feels like a real asshole, because _of course_ , dude was just hyperventilating a little, and Sam was too caught up in what a scary motherfucker he is to even _notice_ , let alone do his damn job and help the guy. But Steve is all over it, breathing deeply to give Bucky something to copy, as if he hadn't completely brushed off Sam's every attempt to get him to do breathing exercises when he seemed like he was spiraling into a panic attack (if you ever want to feel like the saddest, most useless bastard on earth, try sitting by helplessly watching Captain America shaking and gasping for air on your living room couch). But now they're breathing together, the two of them, and again it feels like they're on the edge of something: Steve's eyes fixed on Bucky's face, Bucky's metal fingers clenched so hard around Steve's wrist that Sam's surprised that the bone doesn't snap, their foreheads so close that they're almost touching. 

Steve's phone rings.

Steve answers without bothering to look at it. “Rogers.”

He listens for a second, then says “I'll be right over. Thanks, Jarvis.”

He hangs up. Sam frowns. “ _Jarvis_ called you?”

“Yep,” Steve says, and smiles, shaking his head a little like he can't believe what he just heard. “Buck. The kids are fine, but we're gonna have to go pick them up. They just broke into Stark Tower.”

 

*****

This is absolutely and completely the worst day _ever_ , and it's so totally _totally_ Lily's fault.

Ok, so, back up. The first part wasn't Lily's fault, it wasn't anybody's fault, except for maybe whatever shitty terrorists blew John up and messed up his head and made him how he is. Because he was _fine_ in the morning, he was completely normal and fine, and Mikey was trying to get him to Nae Nae with him because John can do _any_ dance after he watches it on youtube once and Mikey _knows_ he's seen that video, and John was all like _ugh, why did I adopt you, go get ready, you gotta go to school_ , and Mikey was all _but I love you_ , and John was pretending not to laugh.

Then he made this weird choking noise, and grabbed at his head, and went really, really quiet, and the next time he moved he was speaking Russian and _pointing a gun at Mikey's head_ , and then he was speaking English but he was all weird and confused, like he had _no clue_ where he was, and then he started twitching and grunting and breathing too fast and hard and actually _crying_ , with actual _tears_ , and trying to _rip his own arm off_ – which like, ok, it's metal, but Mikey's pretty sure it's not _detachable_ – and the only thing that seemed to calm him down at all was saying that they'd go get Steve. So Mikey and Lily go running out the door, all like, “Let's go, hurry up, time to go get Captain America!” Until they stop on the sidewalk outside of their squat and realize, wait.

“How the fuck are we going to _get Captain America_? He's not, like, _Fritos_ , they don't have him at the _bodega_ , we can't just _get_ him,” Mikey says.

“Shut up and let me think,” Lily says. Which is _rude_ , but Mikey's learned to expect that from certain people. “Ok, listen. Tony Stark is an Avenger, right? And they're trying to call Stark Tower Avengers Tower now? So maybe if we went there we could tell them that it's an emergency and maybe get to talk to him?”

“ _Girl_ ,” Mikey says. “We couldn't get anyone to listen to us when our old foster dad was beating us up, why would anyone listen to us when we roll up all “Yo, can we borrow Captain America for a second? The sexy junkie murder-robot we live with in our homeless-people squat, like, _really_ wants to see him.”

“I _know_ , Mikey, I am _not_ stupid,” Lily says. “I'll think of something. We could, like, do a hunger strike in the lobby until he talks to us. Captain America wouldn't let two innocent children _starve to death_ in the _lobby_.”

“They'd probably make us leave before we starved to death,” Mikey says.

Lily pinches him. “Bitch, you are _unhelpful_ , what exactly is _your_ genius idea?”

He doesn't have any genius ideas, so they take the train down to Manhattan. Or they would, but the fucking 6 is down _again_ , and there's supposed to be some kind of shuttle but no one knows, like, where it is or when it's coming or if maybe some really angry guy who works for the MTA just put up that sign to fuck with them and the shuttle doesn't even actually _exist_ , so they have to walk to the bus station and wait for the bus and then ride on the gross smelling bus. 

And there's this homeless lady on the bus, and and, like, ok, Mikey's homeless too, but she's _really_ homeless, like all dirty and talking to herself and wearing all of her clothes at the same time. And Mikey looks at her and thinks _oh My God, that's John_. That's whats going to happen to _John_ if they can't help him, if he just keeps on getting worse and worse like he was today, all twitching and confused and scared. He won't be able to help them with their homework anymore, he won't come to pick them up after school, he won't call Mikey _slugger_ and give him hugs and make him and Lily eat healthy dinner, and they'll _never ever get to Nae Nae_. Their foster daddy will just be the scary guy on the bus who people sit really far away from and try not to look at, and Mikey starts crying and keeps crying all the way to Park Avenue. 

By the time they make it to Stark Tower Mikey's pretty sure he looks like the saddest little orphan baby on the entire _planet_ , and that they'll totally take one look at him and Lily and how _super sad_ they are and let them talk to Captain America right away. Instead the bored guy at the security entrance thing in front of the elevators just asks them if they have an appointment. 

Lily looks at him like he just picked his nose and ate it. “Sir, we are _homeless orphan children_ , how exactly are we supposed to _make an appointment_? Like, have our people talk to Captain America's people?”

But dude doesn't care, and just kind of waves them off. So they're just wandering around in the lobby all sad, and also really hungry, because John started waving his Glock around this morning before they had the chance to eat their Pop Tarts. Which would maybe be a good thing if they were actually going to do a hunger strike, but now they've decided that that will take too long, so they're just hungry and mad about it. There's a coffee shop in the lobby, but it's like some kind of rich-people coffee shop with, like, _macarons_ and shit instead of normal food, and the sandwiches all have weird leaves and things on them and cost 15 dollars each, so they pool all of the money they have and buy a salted caramel muffin to share because this stupid coffee shop doesn't even have regular chocolate, and then Mikey cries some more because they're on _Park Avenue_ and his _jeans have a hole in them_ and his _foster dad is going crazy_ and _no one will help them_ and they are _too poor to afford more than one rich-people muffin_.

Then Lily has another idea.

“Mikey,” she says. “I bet this place has like a _huge_ parking garage, right?”

So recently John's been trying to teach them some of his weird John-skills (except he says he won't teach them how to fire the sub-machine gun he keeps hidden under the floor, which is _totally_ unfair, Mikey would be _very_ responsible with it), and basically John's favorite things in the whole world are _assessing the building for security gaps_ and _securing the perimeter_ and that kind of stuff. So now Mikey and Lily know what _sight lines_ are, and they also know that if you want to break into a big building like a hospital or government building (for reasons that John never explains), you should figure out how delivery trucks get in. 

So they leave the lobby and, like, inspect the perimeter or something, and _check it out_ , there's a ramp leading down into a parking garage. There's a security guard in a little booth letting the cars in, and there's this scanner machine thing that the cars go through to check for bombs or whatever, but he's not, like, searching for stowaways or anything. So now all they have to do it find a ride. John would just, like, cling to the bottom of a truck, but they can't do that, so they come up with something else.

“Excuse me? Ma'am?” Lily is in charge of tapping on the lady's window, because if Mikey goes and taps on some strange white lady's car window he'll probably end up getting shot by the cops or something, and _safety first_. “Ma'am? I'm so, so, sorry, but – ” and it's on. They're foster kids (cover identities. Should contain some element of t-truth. For v-v-v-verisimilitude. If possible and mission-relevant), they were supposed to come by their new foster mom's office today during their lunch break from school, but they lost the id card that she gave them to get in with and they're not on the family phone plan yet and they're so, so embarrassed but can they maybe get a ride in with her because they don't want their new mom to think they're screw-ups after just a week and send them back to the group home – 

The nice white lady is almost _crying_.

They're in.

They get in the elevator with the lady and hit a random floor above hers, and then once she gets off Mikey hits the button to go to the top floor, because they're heard that's where the Avengers meet, and then a very polite voice says “I'm sorry, sir, I'm afraid that you don't have access to that floor.” Then it says “Dear me. I'm afraid that neither of you should have access to _any_ part of the tower,” and they hear an alarm go off.

Which is how they ended up stuck here, in this shitty little white room, hungry and tired with no one to get them out, and this was _all_ Lily's idea and it's _all her fault._

They've already been in here for _hours_ , and they keep saying, like “No, our parent or guardian _can't_ come pick us up, that's the _problem_ ,” when they door opens and – 

“ _John_ ,” Lily says, which is good, because at the same time as she said that Mikey says _“Dad!”_ Which is the _most_ embarrassing and hopefully no one heard, but it's ok, it's all ok, because John is hugging them and saying “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so fuckin' sorry,” and he's _him_ again, and everything is going to be all right.

“What the fuck were you two _thinking_ , b-breaking into here?” John says. 

Lily flaps her hands at him. “We didn't know what to do! You couldn't _talk_ , and you were _crying_ , and you kept asking for Steve – ”

There's a kind of choking noise, and Mikey looks up, and Captain America is there. Like, _right there_. Mikey could _touch_ him. And he'd _want_ to, because Captain America in real life is so, so much better than in pictures. Like, bitch is _huge _, and _jacked_ , but also -- ugh, it's so dumb -- but he kind of _glows_ , and you just want to put your sunglasses on and lie around in that glow for the rest of your life. And next to him is the fucking _Falcon_ , who is _so, so fine_ and is just standing there smiling all happy like he's watching one of those videos where lost dogs reunite with their owners. Cap, though, he looks like he might cry, so it says something about his sexy glow situation that he is still that hot with his face all scrunched up like that.__

__Mikey grabs Lily's arm, “Lily, _what the fuck_ , what are our _lives_ , we're in like the _Pinkberry of delicious men_ right now. There's, like, _all of the flavors_.”_ _

__The Falcon says “Hah!”_ _

__“Ugh, whatever,” Lily says. “There is not a Latino _or_ an Asian Avenger, do not even talk to me about _all of the flavors_. Besides, you're only all about the vanilla anyway,” she says, and gives this real cold look to Captain America, which the Falcon thinks is _hilarious_._ _

__“Oh my God, can you even _see_ him? You can _not_ tell me that you wouldn't put that in a cup and cover it with gummy bears,” Mikey says._ _

__“Ok, hold up,” the Falcon says. “As much as I appreciate this conversation, if you keep talking like that Steve is going to crumple into himself so hard that he actually creates a black hole, and none of us want that. Sasha, thank you for the precious gift you've brought to us. Steve, we're keeping them, I don't even care what you have to say right now.”_ _

__“I'm not going to just turn a couple of kids over to the state, Sam,” Cap says. And ugh, his voice is all deep and sexy, like he's White Mustafa or something._ _

__“Um, excuse me, but _you guys_ aren't our foster dads, _John_ is,” Mikey says. “You don't get to like, _make decisions_ about us.”_ _

__Everyone looks at John. “I.” He says. “I don't. I d-d-d-d-d-d—” and Mikey's about to yell at the superheroes for scaring John and stressing him out like that, but then Captain America steps in close to John's side and squeezes his shoulder._ _

__“Hey,” he says, all soft and gentle. “It's fine. Take your time. We're not in a rush.”_ _

__John kind of holds onto Cap's wrist. Mikey kicks Lily's ankle and mouths _“What did I tell you, bitch?”__ _

__Then they step back from each other, which, _why_? And John says “We were talking. Me and Steve. About you two.” He swallows. “It's almost winter. We don't have water. Heat. You shouldn't. You shouldn't have to live like that.”_ _

__“I've seen your squat,” Cap says, all soft like he was when he was talking to John. “You're going to freeze in there once it starts getting colder.”_ _

__John says “You should live. Somewhere better.”_ _

__“ _No_ ,” Mikey says. “No, no, _no fucking way_ , you are _not_ getting rid of us, _no_ ,” and he's crying and he doesn't care, because John _can't do this to them_ , he _can't_._ _

__Lily puts her arm around Mikey and hisses at Captain America like a mean cat. “Fuck you. _Fuck you_. You talk to him for _five fucking minutes_ and now we're getting thrown out again, like you think you know _shit_ , like you think it's _better_ in the fucking _group home_? John would _never_ do us like that, you're fucking with his head or something, telling him lies -”_ _

__“S-s-s-stop,” John says, and then he says it again, loud and angry. “ _Stop_.”_ _

__They stop, because John never shouts at them. Cap speaks up then. “You didn't give him a chance to finish. And I'd appreciate it if both of you could watch your language,” he says, and gives them both a very disappointed look._ _

__When teachers tell Mikey not to swear it's _whatever_ , and when John does it it's just _funny_ , because seriously, John? But when Captain America does it it makes him want to crawl into a hole and never come out again because he is a _hideous filth-worm_ who doesn't even deserve to be alive. He says “Sorry, sir. I'll try, I promise.”_ _

__John does a double-take like Scooby Doo, then glares at his boyfriend. “How. How did you do that.”_ _

__“Well, Buck, it probably helps that I don't talk like a sauced merchant marine on shore leave,” Cap says, which is like 50% words that Mikey doesn't understand, and what is a _Buck_?_ _

__John Bert-faces at everyone in the room at the same time, then looks back at Mikey and Lily. “I never said. I _never_ said group home. I'm n- _not_ getting rid of you.” He looks toward Cap, who takes over for him._ _

__“I own a brownstone in Ridgewood,” he says, and he _blushes_ , like he's _embarrassed_ about being a hot superhero who's also really rich. “I live on the second floor, but the first is empty right now.” His eyes flick over to John for a second, like maybe he had an idea of who he wanted living there when he bought the building. “It's nothing fancy, but there's heat and running water and furniture, which is more than what you've got right now, and I repainted the place a few months back. It's yours if you want it.”_ _

__Mikey just stares. “You want us to _move in wih you_? We just met you like _two seconds ago_. You're _Captain America_ , we're _strangers_ , we could be, like, devil-worshiping crack addicts.”_ _

__Captain America smiles a little, which is basically like when the sun rises a little or the Harlem Boy's Choir sings a little. Mikey is going to _faint_. “If you turn out to be devil-worshipping crack addicts I promise to evict you,” he says. “But you'd be in my building, not my apartment. You'd have your own space. And you're not _strangers_ , you're Bucky's foster kids. I figure that makes you family.” _ _

__“Who the hell is _Bucky_?” Mikey says. _ _

__Cap winces. “You know, I'm getting really sick of that question.”_ _

__John says “T-tell me about it, slugger.”_ _

__Lily says “No. _No_. You people are _crazy_.”_ _

__Mikey looks at her. She looks like _she's_ about to go crazy, her face all white and everything. “Wait, what? What's going on?”_ _

__“ _Oh my God_ , you dummy, you _still_ haven't done your history homework? _Bucky Barnes_ was Captain America's best friend, like _back in the day_. He's been dead for like _eighty years_.”_ _

__“S-seventy.” John says. They stare at him. He shrugs. “It didn't. Take.”_ _

__“ _No_ ,” Lily says, and now her voice is getting all shakey, and Mikey's just staring, because Lily _never_ cries, not _ever_. “No, this shit is _fucked up_ , John has _mental illnesses_ and you're just – you're _messing_ with him, you're _confusing_ him, and I don't know what we're supposed to do – ”_ _

__“Lily,” Captain America says, and goes down on one knee so he can look up into her face instead of, like, looming, which is so nice that it actually makes Mikey's stomach hurt a little. Because no one _ever_ bothers to do that kind of stuff for Lily, like just because she's tough and she talks a little Mexican and she's all tall and stuff they don't have to bother with that gentleman shit. But Cap is talking to her all quiet and respectful like she's a _young lady_ or something, and it makes Mikey really, really like him. “I understand, and you're absolutely right. If I thought someone was trying to mess with Buck's head right now I – I don't know what I'd do. Something I'd feel bad about afterwards, probably. But – here.” He goes into his jacket pocket and pulls out a wallet, then takes a picture out of it and hands it to Lily. “This was taken in Paris. In 1944.”_ _

__Mikey and Lily both look at it. It's two guys in old army uniforms, laughing with their arms around each other. Cap's on the left, his floppy old-fashioned bangs kind of falling into his eyes as he grins at his friend, who has slicked-back dark hair and a big, lazy smile, like he knows he can get every girl in the room. He looks like a movie star._ _

__“ _John_ ,” Lily says, and she's crying for real now, with snot and everything. “You were _so handsome_.” And it's terrible, because now that Mikey's seen the picture he can tell how true it is: that John's a guy who _used_ to be stupid-handsome but now just looks more and more like a junkie, a little skinnier and sicker every single day, and Mikey just never really noticed because he thinks John's beautiful even when he's really messed up. And John just comes over and hugs her really tight and doesn't say a thing, and Mikey's glad, because all of this shit is too weird and he doesn't really want to have to think about it right now. He just wants to go home and have healthy dinner with Lily and John and not think about _anything.__ _

__Everyone's quiet for a second. John lets Lily go. Then Mikey says “So John's coming to live with us too, right?”_ _

__Cap says “That's up to him,” just as John is shaking his head._ _

__“I'll still bring you to school and all. I'm not leaving you. But I'm not moving in.”_ _

__“ _Why_?” Lily says. _ _

__Cap says “We know we all want you there with us, Buck.”_ _

__“F-fuck you, Rogers,” John says. He sounds so, so tired. “You manipulative son of a bitch. I ain't quitting the smack. I can't do it. And I'm sure as _hell_ not b-bringing that shit into your fucking home. Bad enough I let you see me doing it, let the fucking _kids_ see me doing it. I'm not bringing your whole fucking life down along with me. I'm not showing up on your doorstep with my fucking _works_ and my fucking _Skorpion_ and a two-kilo sack of fucking _smack_ in my backpack.” He swallows. “Listen, I – I got a job, now. A real one, you know? I'm just trying to – ease into it a little. All this _being a person_ shit. Just – give me time, ok? If I'm gonna be shooting up and then taking out Hydra shitheads I don't want their blood on your g-g-goddamn living room carpet.”_ _

__“Well, maybe I do,” Captain America says. “It's been a few months since I took out some Hydra punks. I could use the practice.”_ _

__John shakes his head. “You never did it like I do, champ. Not once. That's why you're Captain America and I'm – whatever the fuck I am.”_ _

__“You're the Revelator,” Mikey says. “You're a _superhero_.”_ _

__John closes his eyes really tightly for a second, like his head hurts or something. “Thanks, slugger. That's – that's real sweet of you to say.”_ _

__There's a little pause._ _

__“Ok, Buck,” Cap says. That's fine. Stay wherever you want. But I've got some demands.”_ _

__John's eyes go hard. When he speaks this time he has a Russian accent, which usually happens when he's trying to scare someone. Mikey's never sure whether or not he's doing it on purpose, or if he even realizes that he's doing it. “You don't get. To make demands.”_ _

__“Sure I do,” Cap says. He doesn't sound even a _little_ scared. “I'm Captain America. I could have had you drying out and getting deprogrammed in a underground government facility a week ago. There but for the grace of Cap go you, buddy.” Then his expression goes all sad, and he says “I've been making demands of you since I was six years old, Buck. You've always at least heard me out.”_ _

__John gives a jerky little nod. Cap draws in a breath. “Ok. I want you to let me pay for cell phone service for you and the kids, so we can be in touch. I want a text from you at least once per day, so I can know for sure that you're still alive. And I want to see you for dinner at least once per week, so I can know for sure that you're eating.”_ _

__John blinks. “That's. It?”_ _

__“That's it,” Cap says. “Have we got a deal?”_ _

__They shake on it. John is so worn out that he's talking all start-and-stop, which doesn't mean that he isn't _him_ , just that he's too tired or distracted or stressed-out to remember how talking is supposed to work. “Dinner. I eat with the kids. Every night. If you want. You can eat with us. Together.”_ _

__Cap smiles. “I'd like that a lot, Buck.”_ _

So John's himself again, at least for now, and Mikey and Lily are moving into a real apartment, and they're all going to have healthy family dinner together just like they always do, except that _Captain America's coming too_ , and the Falcon is off to the side looking kind of like he's waiting for his invitation. 

This day got better with a _serious_ quickness, Mikey thinks, just before Iron Man walks in. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, do I ever have an embarrassing confession to make: I am not actually a human being, but am in fact a loathly immortal lich that sustains itself entirely upon A03 comments. Thanks so much to everyone who has contributed to my continued deathless unlife! XXOO!
> 
> Also: I feel like about 1,000 words of this were just an elaborate setup for that dumb Pinkberry joke. NO REGRETS.
> 
> ALSO ALSO: Natasha and the Russian language are both really, really hard to write. I am so sorry for whatever atrocities I may have brought to bear upon either of them.


	5. Protect Ya Neck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky makes a friend. Steve has a mission. A body is considered. Feelings are discussed. The dollar store is the scene of romance. Sam Wilson receives his due. The Goddamn Kids suffer enormously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, guys, when an undead lich tells you that it subsists upon AO3 comments y'all don't mess around! Thanks so much: with this great supply of commentary I shall rule in the breathless unlight of the everdark for many centuries to come.
> 
> So hey, this is a pretty cheerful chapter! Nothing too horrible happens that I have to warn about! Only warnings for this chapter (other than the usual): non-explicit discussion of sexual assault, torture, and other bad stuff that took place in the past. Also, yet another POV OC, because I have a sickness. And dick jokes. Like, a lot of dick jokes.
> 
> Also, if you notice that this chapter has about 300% fewer weird typos and nonsensical bits than the previous installments, please thank [Vaysh](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaysh/pseuds/Vaysh), my awesome new beta reader.

The instant Steve hears Mikey saying “Holy shit, that's Iron Man!” he's flinging himself bodily at Stark and carrying him out of the room, then slamming the door shut and placing himself in front of it that there will be no attempts at entry or exit by any parties.

“You know, Cap,” Stark says. “In some circles that would be referred to as use of unnecessary force. If you don't want to introduce me to your murder-bot boyfriend and his little ragamuffin sidekicks, you can just _tell_ me, and I'll be very respectful of your decision. Hurt? Yes. Confused? Absolutely. Shocked and offended by your lack of trust in me after all we've been through together? Without a doubt. But above all: _respectful_.”

Steve's head hurts.

“I don't have a _boyfriend_ ,” Steve says. “And I don't think that it's a good idea for you to meet Bucky right now.”

“Why not?” Stark says. “I'm not even mad about the whole possibly-murdered-my-parents-while-under-the-influence-of-torture-and-brainwashing thing, which I think is really very big of me. Do you think I'm going to offend him? I understand that I have a uniquely forceful personality, but the man was tortured by Hydra for over seventy years. How easy to offend can he possibly be? I won't even try to stick any bamboo slivers under his fingernails. All I want is the chance to meet my childhood hero, Bucky Barnes, shake him by the hand, and maybe use the opportunity to _lightly_ examine his left arm. I don't think that's too much to ask, really. I think it's a very _reasonable_ thing to ask.”

“Touch my arm,” Bucky says. “And. I'll tear yours off.”

There's a pause.

Bucky says, “This door. Isn't sound-proof. Let me out, Steve.”

Steve sighs, and lets him out.

Bucky and Stark eye each other. 

Eventually Tony holds out a hand. “Well! It certainly is a very _unique_ pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tik-Tok.”

Bucky shakes his hand. “Feeling's mutual, Ghostface.”

“What?” Tony says. Then “Did you just make a Ghostface Killah Iron Man joke?" 

“No,” Bucky says. “That was a coincidence. I'm about a hundred years old and got m-m-mental disabilities, what the fuck do I know from the Wu-Tang Clan?”

Stark stares at him for a second. Bucky stares right back. Then they both start grinning.

“Oh, _no_ ,” Steve says, because of all of the possible outcomes of this meeting, this is the _worst possible outcome_. “You _like_ each other.”

“There's no hope for you now, Cap,” Tony says, practically rubbing his hands together in glee. “Hey, Go-Go Gadget, you look like a guy who enjoys taking apart an engine, am I right?”

“Fuckin' A,” Bucky says. “Just point me to it. I can fix my own arm, too. Think it needs an upgrade, though. Maybe a grenade launcher. And GPS, I'm always getting fuckin' lost in the woods.”

“We are going to have _so many playdates_ ,” says Stark. “I mean, if your mom lets us.”

“Aw, mom just fusses because he c-c-c-cares,” Bucky says.

“I will _send you back to Russia_ , see if I don't,” Steve tells him. “You can go farm potatoes, I'm sure they'll appreciate that sparkling personality of yours.”

“Like hell you will, you miss me while I'm t-t-t-taking a bath,” Buck says, all smug, and Steve doesn't have it in him to try and argue otherwise.

“Cap,” Tony says. “Pepper loves you, and I love this wonderful man that you've brought into my life. _Double dates_ , Cap. We can _bond_ , you know that you love team bonding. There is _literally no reason_ why you would ever say no to this idea.”

Steve can think of a few.

From inside the room Sam says, “Hey, can I come out too?”

 

*****

Steve's new mission is getting Bucky to eat.

He figures it out after about two family dinners. The first night the kids come home with him he just orders some sandwiches, because he's feeling exhausted and shell-shocked and sandwiches seem like a good food for that sort of feeling. He gets one of those party trays with five different varieties on it so no one will starve because they're the kind of 21st century kid who doesn't eat food that starts with the letter B, or something. Which turns out not to be a problem: apart from Mikey's very vocally expressed dislike of salmon, the kids seem like they'll eat anything, and even manage to be very polite about thanking him for it. _Poor-kid habits_ , he thinks: even with the mouths that these two have on them they know how to act grateful when someone buys them a meal. 

He notices Buck staring at the food like he thinks it might blow up on him, and scootches his chair a little closer. “Hey, Buck,” he says. “I know Mikey made it sound like about the worst thing on earth, but you used to love it when your ma brought home some lox.”

“Cream cheese,” Bucky says. “Dairy. Problematic.”

“Oh,” Steve says. “Did that milkshake end up making you sick, then?”

“Yes,” Buck says, and shoots Steve a little grin. “Worth it.”

He ends up picking out a vegan sandwich, disassembling it, scraping off what strikes Steve as a random selection of ingredients (onions, pesto, individual seeds from the bread) then slowly eating it crumb by crumb while he talks to the kids about their day. In the same time the kids finish two sandwiches each, and Steve plows through five. It doesn't occur to him to wonder until much later whether that had been Bucky's only meal of the day, and by the time it does Buck has long since gone out the window.

The next day Steve decides to make meatloaf and mashed potatoes and creamed spinach, because he likes to have something to do with his hands when he's anxious, and though he's no great shakes as a chef he considers himself capable of following simple, numbered instructions. At around six the kids come upstairs, greet him from several feet away, and then skulk off to watch TV in his living room. They're a little shy around him: he's not sure if he finds it a disappointment or a relief.

A few minutes later Sam arrives at the door, bearing a sixpack of fancy root beer (check out how damn kid friendly I am!) and some of his mom's homemade dinner rolls. He and the kids play Uno in the living room while Steve finishes up in the kitchen. From the childish whooping and jeering Steve can deduce that Sam is winning.

Bucky turns up at exactly 6:35: Steve knows the time down to the minute because Mikey makes a sound like an air raid siren when he climbs through the window. Buck comes prowling into the kitchen a minute later, and kind of snugs himself up into Steve's side. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Steve says, resisting the sudden wild urge to turn his head a little and kiss him hello. “Blow up any Hydra bases for me today?” 

“No. I m-m-moved about twenty crates of cola, though. My one arm's gonna be looking real good after a few weeks of this.”

“Oh,” Steve says, trying to school his face into an expression of something a little more reasonable than _violent, heart-stopping joy_. “You went to work today? That's great, Buck.”

“Oh, yeah,” Buck says. “They say it's good for us m-mentally disabled types to have some kind of job to do. Sweeping out the back room, that kinda thing. M-m-makes us feel important.”

“Well,” Steve says, “keep in mind that you're talking to an unemployed guy who occasionally wears a giant target and throws himself at grown men wearing capes. If I tried to sweep out a back room I'd probably find a way to get myself shot before I could finish.”

Bucky gives a hoarse little bark of a laugh, then sniffs at Steve's neck. “You smell real g-good today, ace. New soap?”

“New bodywash. It was on sale.” It had actually been pretty expensive to start with, but he could justify it to himself at half off.

Buck laughs again. “Of fuckin' _course_ it was. Who the fuck would you be if you b-bought anything full price? I won't even bother making a joke about which one of us is the Jew.” He slides one arm around Steve's waist and gives him a little squeeze. Steve's just working on not falling to pieces over how little would have to change for this to be the two of them in 1939. Though Buck had never put his arm around him quite like this back then, had never lingered over it for so long. Now he mumbles, “It ok if I do this? Touching you and all?”

Steve considers his response for a moment before he speaks. “It's more than ok, Buck. Believe me, I'll never have a thing to say against you touching me.”

“Huh,” Buck says. They just sort of look at each other for a while, which Steve thinks is just fine. His eyes could use the rest, and Bucky's face is a pretty great thing to rest on.

“ _John_ , what are you _doing_ in there, we're about to – _oh my God_!” says Mikey, and Steve and Bucky leap apart. Steve's face is almost painfully hot. “Oh my God, I am _so sorry_ , I am the _worst_ ,” Mikey says, and goes flying back into the living room. “ _Lily_! They were about to _kiss_ and I _ruined_ it, I'm an actual _monster_ , it's going to take them like another _eighty years_ to get to first base again!”

Steve can hear Sam cackling from the other room. Buck looks thoughtful. “You know, I think the kids really t-t-take after me, personality-wise.”

“He sure as hell didn't get it from my side,” Steve says. “I just contributed the good looks. Hey, is meatloaf problematic?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Most meat is. Are you saying I'm real plain or something?”

“I thought it might be: you can have double potato rations. And I wouldn't call you _plain_ , exactly. You'd be a pretty hot ticket if it weren't for that thing growing out of your face.”

“Don't you go t-t-t-talking about my nose, Rogers,” Bucky says, obviously fighting to try and keep a straight face. This joke's an old one, a thing of theirs that had sprung up out of little Steve's crooked, busted-up nose being about the biggest part of his body. It had always confused the heck out of people who didn't know them to hear this scrawny little jerk mercilessly heckling the tall, handsome guy he was hanging around with over his nonexistent facial deformity, which had just egged them on: the more shocked other people were the meaner Steve got, while Bucky projected his wounded feelings to the rafters and pretended to have a coughing fit whenever he had to laugh. “That's _antisemitic_ , is what that is. I'll leak it to the papers, you'll n-never work in this t-t-t-town again.”

“Who said anything about your nose being _Semitic_?” says Steve, speaking up over the racket he's making mashing about five pounds of boiled potatoes. “You got that horrible potato-looking honker of yours straight from your drunk Irish dad.”

Buck's cackle might be even worse than Sam's. “You know,” he says, once he's stopped laughing, “no one said a w-word against my nose all the time that Hydra had me. They were real p-p-positive about my nose, compared to you.” He tics a couple of times, his head snapping to the right, then grins.

Steve hesitates for a second, worried that Buck's maybe being serious now, or that he might take the joke too far. But Bucky's _grinning_ at him, looking relaxed and happy and ready for another round, and since Steve's never been very good at denying Bucky anything, he gives him one. “Probably because the Red Skull didn't have one. You run a Nazi organization founded by a noseless megalomaniac and you take whatever beaks you can get, even the hideously malformed ones.”

Bucky cracks up again, and this time the sight of him laughing sets Steve off too, until they're just sort of leaning on each other and poking each other in the ribs and giggling, Steve with the potato masher still in his hand. 

“Oh my God,” Lily says. They look up. Mikey, Lily and Sam are all crowded in the doorway, staring at them. “I didn't know that John's face could _do_ that.”

“I have literally _never_ seen Steve laugh like that before,” Sam tells the kids. “Man, this is freaky as hell. It's like he's been replaced by his really happy twin, Captain Giggles.”

“I would've g-gone for Captain Laughmerica,” Bucky says. Steve groans. 

“What?” Buck says. “I thought that was pretty good.”

Steve points toward the door with his potato masher. “Get out of my kitchen. Go on, take a powder, Barnes, I can't stand the sight of you.” 

“You just don't know how to appreciate a real classic w-w-w-wit when you hear him talking,” Bucky says. Then he stalks off into the living room, because it seems like that's the only way he knows how to walk now. 

Sam is still staring at him, but now he's smiling, too. “Did you just tell him to _take a powder_?”

“Yeah, and you can too,” Steve says and gestures threateningly with the potato masher until the rest of them make tracks.

At dinner Sam and the kids wax enthusiastic about the meatloaf, but Steve is watching Buck, paying attention to what he's eating and how much of it. He's scooped some mashed potatoes onto his plate, and is steadily working through them with the same kind of dull disinterest that Steve's seen him apply to oatmeal and sandwiches. Steve grabs one of Sam's fancy root beers and passes it to him. “Hey, have you tried one of these yet?”

“No,” Buck says and pops the lid with his left thumb. 

“That is useful as _hell_ ,” Sam says. 

“Yeah, well, now you know who to invite to your next p-p-p-party.” He takes a sip of his root beer and chokes. “What _is_ this?”

“It's root beer,” Steve says. “You, uh, you used to really like it. Guess you don't anymore?”

Bucky's voice goes a little Russian around the edges. “No, I was just – surprised. I think I expected it to taste like kvass.” He takes another sip. “I like it.”

“Good,” Steve and Sam say at the same time. Mikey and Lily are having some sort of intense whispered conference at the other end of the table, and are not paying attention to the adults. Bucky drinks more root beer and prods at his potatoes. Steve mentally calculates calories and puts a roll onto his plate. “Here. They're really good. Sam's mom made them.”

Bucky gives him an unimpressed look and tears off a little bit of it with his fingers to eat. “You ain't as s-subtle as you think you are, champ.” He takes another bite of the roll, then frowns down at it for a second like he's trying to figure it out. “It _is_ p-pretty good.”

“Listen, you want subtle, you got the wrong costumed crime-fighter,” Steve says. Then he says, “Come on, Buck. One roll and that whole root beer and we'll call it jake for now, ok?”

“For now,” Buck repeats and smiles a little with one side of his mouth. Steve wants to rub his thumb over that mouth, even it out a little.

“Yeah, for now. Do you know how many calories you're getting in a day?”

Bucky's face goes flat. “The body is to be provided with at least 800 calories of digestible carbohydrates per 12 hours of light activity.”

“ _800_?” Steve says, at the same time as Sam says, “ _The body_?”

Sam leans back a little in his chair. “Do you want to elaborate on that at all?”

“Don't head-shrink me,” Bucky says.

“Man, I'm not educated enough to shrink that head,” Sam says. “Honestly, you'll probably need a whole team. Or maybe an actual shrink-ray.”

“ _800 calories_?” Steve says again. “ _Mikey_ would starve on that.”

“Haven't died yet,” Bucky says.

Steve scowls. “You're finishing your potatoes, too.”

“John,” Lily says, and all three adults turn to look at her. She says, “Me and Mikey want you to stay here tonight.”

“We have _separation anxiety_ ,” Mikey says.

“ _None_ of you is as fuckin' subtle as you think you are,” Bucky says. “And. _No_.”

Lily starts to say something. Bucky narrows his eyes. “I will go. Out. The window.”

Mikey says, “Ugh, just let him cock-block himself, I don't even _care_ anymore.”

Lily says, “Why do you have to be so _difficult_ –” she pauses for a second, and then very deliberately says “– _Bucky_?” and sneers at him. 

She honestly makes Steve a little nervous. 

Buck flinches slightly. Then he says, “I was a Hydra assassin. For seventy years. You ain't _seen difficult_.”

“You know, you don't have to be so _dramatic_ , either, all this _ooh, look at me, I'm all scary, I'm always jumping out the window, I'm too cool to use doors like normal people_ shit,” Lily says.

Buck says. “Doors.” He swallows. “Make me feel sick.”

Steve frowns. “ _Doors_ make you feel sick?”

Buck's staring hard at his root beer. “P-p-p-protocol. Wake up. Shots. Tube. Hose-down. Gear. Boots and orders. Weapons. Mask. Walk through the d-d-d-door for mission launch. Post mission. Door, boots and debrief. Weapons inspection. Hose-down. E-e-enema. Repairs. Tube. Shots. The ch-ch-chair. Back in the tank.”

“Shit,” Sam says. The kids just look shell-shocked.

“Oh,” Steve says. “Of course you'd hate doors. And the boots thing, too. That makes a lot of sense.”

Bucky stares at him. “No it. _Doesn't_. Fuckin' _crazy_.” 

Steve grabs another roll and starts buttering it. “I always skip the last stair in my staircase. Remember how you put your foot through that step at the last place we had together, and I almost fell through the hole a few times before I got used to it and started hopping over it? I was doing that here. That old rat-trap was condemned sixty years ago, but I'm still skipping the hole in the staircase.”

“Oh,” Sam says. “ _That's_ why you do that. I thought it was just because you have so much supersoldier pep in your step.” 

“You ever notice me doing this at the end of a run?” Steve says and pats his chest a few times with his hand. “Checking to see if I remembered my asthma cigarettes. Part of me's always waiting for my airways to close up every time I start breathing hard. And no one even electrocuted my brain to make it happen.”

“I get it, Steve,” Buck says. “Christ.”

Steve tears the roll in half. “I'd been wanting to knock that kitchen wall down anyway.” 

“The _fuck_ you have,” Bucky says. “Now you're tearing up your damn apartment because I'm a crazy fuck who doesn't like _doors_?”

“I have,” Steve insists. “The light's good in the kitchen, but it's like a tomb in the living room in the mornings, and now that it's not just me anymore I thought I wouldn't be eating in the kitchen so much.” Standing up next to the fridge, chewing and not tasting anything. “And it would be better for painting.” He gives one half of his roll to Bucky. “Do me a favor and eat that for me, pal.”

“Pain in my g-goddamn ass, Rogers,” Buck mumbles.

“Oh my God,” Mikey says. “You're like, _John's foster daddy_.”

“ _Fuck's_ sake,” Bucky says. Sam cackles.

After dinner Steve badgers Buck into stepping on the bathroom scale for him. 184.

Steve frowns. “How is that possible?”

“The arm,” Bucky says. “And. The bones. T-t-t-t-titanium reinforcements. Approximate weight 25 kilos.”

“Oh, _Buck_ ,” he says. Bucky doesn't say anything at all. 

That night Steve orders a case of high-calorie soy-based protein shakes from the internet. They come highly recommended on a forum for vegan bodybuilders.

Then he gets down on his knees. 

“Good Saint Dymphna, great wonder-worker in every affliction of mind and body, I humbly implore your powerful intercession with Jesus through Mary, the Health of the Sick, in the present need of James Buchanan Barnes for the relief of his illness. Saint Dymphna, martyr of purity, patroness of those who suffer with nervous and mental afflictions, beloved child of Jesus and Mary, pray to Them for me and obtain my request.” He takes a deep breath. _Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum..._ ” 

The prayer for intercession. Our Father. Hail Mary. Glory Be.

The prayer for intercession. Our Father. Hail Mary. Glory Be.

Again.

Again.

Again – 

He falls asleep on the floor next to his bed.

 

*****

Huang Fumei is not an idiot.

She knows that people think she is. She know that because her English isn't so good, people think that she's got melon for brains. She doesn't. She is a smart woman. She came to America and she opened a store and she raised her children all on her own, hearing her husband's voice once a week on the telephone until the day he died. She has dealt with drunk customers, bad police, and employees who steal from the register. She has raised two girls in a bad part of the Bronx. She has watched a man get shot and bleed to death on the sidewalk outside of the dollar store. She knows bad news when she sees it.

This _laowai_ she's hired? He is big, bad news.

The first time she ever sees him, he comes in with a girl who looks like maybe he got a Chinese girl in trouble. He looks like maybe he got a lot of girls in trouble, before he got on the dope. Because he is on dope. She can tell from how skinny he is, and from his eyes. They're looking all around like they're looking for a needle.

Huang Fumei is on the phone with her daughter who lives in California, but she watches him while she talks to make sure that he doesn't steal anything, because that's what dope fiends do. They steal things and they fall asleep in the alley next to the dollar store, and they make their mothers cry. Like Huang Fumei's oldest daughter is making her cry, because she wants to do something called a sabbatical and go to China. “I want to learn more about my roots, mama,” her daughter is saying, because she's a stupid girl with no sense.

“Why would you want to learn about your roots? I moved to America so you wouldn't have to be around those bad roots. I sacrificed so you could go to school and get a good job, and now you want to be unemployed in a developing country,” Huang Fumei says. “You are a professor in America and you want to go to China and join the floating population. I think water has gotten into your brain. But I can't talk to you now, there is a drug addict in my store and he is going to steal everything that I have and leave me on the streets. Maybe then we can both go work in the fields in China together,” she says, and hangs up.

The dope fiend comes to the counter. He says, “你中草牌牙膏还有吗?”

She says, “ _Aiya!_ ” Then she says in English, “You speak Chinese! Why do you talk like old man from Hebei?”

He says, “I d-d-d-don't. Know.”

She says, “Are you having stroke? Do you need ambulance?”

He says in Chinese, “I always stammer when I talk to pretty girls,” and winks one of his big blue _laowai_ eyes. 

She smacks him on the arm. It hurts. He either has a fake arm or the world's strongest muscles. “小混混!” she says. She talks to him in Chinese now, because he seems to like it, and too much English makes her mouth feel tired. “You shouldn't buy Chinese toothpaste, it's full of poison. I saw it on the news.”

“But. You're selling it. In your store,” he says.

She says, “I already bought it before I knew about the poison! Do you want me to throw it all away? That would be too wasteful. My customers are smart, they won't swallow it. Is this your little girl? Did you learn Chinese from her mama?”

“She's not. Mine,” he says. “And. She's Mexican and Hmong. Not Chinese.”

Huang Fumei says, “That's too complicated.”

The junkie says, “People. Are too complicated.”

Then he starts coming to her store all the time to buy soap and poison-toothpaste, even though it only costs one dollar less than the regular kind. He calls her Huang Ayi (or _comrade_ , sometimes, on days when he's more mixed-up than usual), and she calls him _junkie_ , because that's what he is. He doesn't mind. He's a pretty funny junkie. Sometimes when he comes in he likes to tell her about how beautiful she is and ask her out on dates. She always tells him that she is a nice girl who doesn't go on dates with bad _liumang_ men like him. He laughs at that. Other times when he comes in and she tries to talk to him he says, “S-s-s-orry,” or “What?” or just taps his mouth with his hand and looks at the floor, which means either he can't speak Chinese today or can't speak any language at all.

When Huang Fumei was a young girl, she saw red guards kick a doctor in the head until his whole body jerked and twisted and pink bubbles came out of his mouth. After that the doctor's eyes didn't look right. When she was older, and in America, she saw boys coming back from prison. Their eyes didn't look right either. 

She's not sure whether this junkie got kicked in the head or shut up in a prison. From how mixed-up he is, maybe it was both. 

He's a nice man, though, even though he's such big trouble. He is nice to those children who follow him around. He is nice to Huang Fumei. So one day, when he says something about needing a job, she says that he can help at the store. She fired her last employee because all he ever did was sit around and fart and look at dirty pictures on his phone, and she doesn't think that this junkie will do those things. She tells him, “You can work here. I'll give you minimum wage, under the table. But you have to work hard or I will fire you like I fired the farting man who worked here before. And you can't do dope in the dollar store.”

The junkie says, “Ok.”

She says, “I need a name to call you. I can't just call you _junkie_ , that's bad for business. My customers will all leave.”

He says, “You can call me Bucky.”

“That's a stupid name,” she says. “That's a name for a dog.”

“How about John?”

She thinks that's ok. That's a good name for a foreigner. If she doesn't remember what a laowai is named, she can call him John, or Chris, or Mike, and usually she's right. Once she had three delivery drivers in a row who were all named Mike. After that they've maybe been named different things, but she keeps calling them Mike, because it's more convenient and saves time. They don't correct her because she is a confused old Chinese lady who runs the dollar store all by herself. 

John is a good employee. He works hard with no breaks, and he doesn't steal cigarettes or cough medicine from behind the counter, and he doesn't do any dope in the dollar store. He does get upset and go in the back room to shake for a while sometimes, or forget how to speak any language but Russian other times, but that's ok. No customers can see him in the back room, and he doesn't need to talk to put things onto the shelves. He does need to eat, though, so she makes extra _zhou_ in the crockpot in the back room every morning so that they can have it for lunch. They understand each other, because both of them have bad teeth. 

Then one day a cop comes looking for him.

He's not in uniform, but she can tell that he's a cop. He stands like a cop and walks like a cop, and he looks around the dollar store with sharp eyes like he's looking for someone to arrest. He's a big good-looking blond-haired man, like the kind of cop that they put in posters with a black cop and a woman cop with words saying that they're your friends and won't shoot you.

Huang Fumei doesn't like cops. They're always arresting her customers, and that's bad for business.

He pretends that he is looking at shampoo. She says, “Today is special offer on Suave brand, buy one get one free.”

He looks interested. 

Then he says, “I, um, I'm looking for a guy who works here. John? Is he here?”

She says, “Are you here to arrest him, or is he a snitch?”

He blinks. “I was planning on taking him out for lunch. He said he has a break at two.”

He's a snitch.

“He never takes it,” she says. “He's a good employee.” Then she shouts toward the back room in Chinese. “John! There's a man here who says he is taking you to lunch and won't arrest you!”

John comes out of the back room. He says, “Hey.”

The cop smiles at him. It's a big, happy smile. He says, “Hey, Buck. Ready to go?” 

This cop is gay for his snitch. That's no good for him at all. He could lose his job. Then they would have to find a new cop to put on the posters. 

John smiles back at him. He says, “Yeah, just l-l-l-let me get my jacket, champ.”

This cop and this junkie are gay for each other. 

When John gets back from his date she says, “You are gay for that cop. That's ok. Huang Ayi is a modern person. I don't care if my employees are gays. But when his other cop friends come to arrest you, make sure they don't arrest you in the dollar store. That's bad for business.”

John says, “Acknowledged.”

He's a very strange foreign man.

A few days later, Huang Fumei sees the cop on the cover of Us Weekly. He looks like he's coming from the gym. His shirt and his pants are both the size that a baby would wear. The caption says, “Salute His Shorts!”

She buys a copy and brings it to the dollar store. She shows it to John. She says, “You are gay with Captain America.”

He smiles a big American smile with all of his teeth. He says, “C-c-c-can I keep this?”

The next time she sees Captain America she corners him in the back of the dollar store. He is looking at pudding cups. She says, “That pudding is no good. Try the other kind.” Then she says, “You are gay for my employee. That is ok. Huang Ayi is ok with the gays. But you shouldn't be with such a big trouble guy. He will get you in trouble, too. It's very bad for image.”

Captain America smiles. He says, “Yeah, probably. But I think he's worth it.”

She says, “You're a nice boy. You should buy clothes that fit better.”

Huang Fumei and Captain America exchange phone numbers, so they can talk about the junkie without him knowing.

Now Huang Ayi is a snitch, too.

 

*****

He'd forgotten what it feels like to be hungry.

_Christ_ , that's stupid. It's _stupid_ , fucking _animals_ know what being fucking hungry feels like. But he needed Steve. Steve pushing bottles of those weird fuckin' bean-milkshakes into his hand. Steve sitting next to him and watching him while he choked down one more bite of bread and margarine, one more spoonful of peanut butter. "Come on, champ, just a little more. You gotta eat. You're hungry. I promise that you're hungry."

The handler –

Christ.

Rogersstevengrant –

Jesus fucking _Christ_.

_Steve_.

Sometimes he – _Buck_ , his name is _Bucky, Sasha, John_ , he's allowed to have a _name_ – thinks that the handler – Steve, _fuck_ , not his handler, his friend, his _friend_ – knows him better than he knows himself. Because he had been hungry, he had been fucking _starving_ , and he hadn't noticed until suddenly the dizzy ache in his head that he hadn't realized wasn't normal went away and now he can suddenly _think_ again. Better than he could before, at least.

The first time he wakes up with that feeling in his gut he texts Steve, "I'm hungry" and Steve texts back with five little smiling faces in a row, and then, "Go eat something!" And even though what he really wants to do is shoot up he makes himself swallow down a protein bar first, because that's what Steve wants him to do, and doing what his handler wants him to do is the easiest thing in the world.

Which is good, because the fuckin' asshole won't leave him the hell alone.

The creature shoots up and lies down on its blanket and listens to music for 15 minutes.

_I keep on running keep on running and nothing works / I can't get away from you_ , says the singer.

Accurate.

It sends the song to Steve, with the word “chorus.”

Steve sends a few seconds of another song. 

_Sugar pie honey bunch / You know that I'm weak for you / I can't help myself_ , says the singer.

Then Steve sends a picture of himself smirking all over his asshole face.

Buck laughs aloud, and startles himself so badly that his earbuds fall out.

He thinks, sometimes, about being a horse. He thinks about being bridled, about having the bit back in his mouth. He thinks about weight on his back. He thinks about being worked hard, about being ridden, about the work of his muscles. He thinks about being rubbed down. He thinks about hands on his body. He thinks about taking food from a palm. He thinks about being fed.

He doesn't know how he feels when he thinks about that. About Steve feeding him. About Steve's hands on his body.

He goes to Steve's apartment and he runs a bath and he takes off his clothes and he looks at the body.

The body –

The body is negative.

Wilsonsamuelthomas would say that the _feelings_ about the body are negative.

Buck thinks that's some doubletalking bullshit.

The body holds the knife. The body pulls the trigger. The body sits in the chair. The body spills its contents. The body screams and thrashes. The body stinks and oozes. The body is _due for an upgrade_. The body has _modern enhancements_. The body is _fucking disgusting_. The body takes what it's given.

Steve shouldn't have to touch the body.

He wants Steve to touch the body.

On the second night after the Goddamn Kids move in with him Steve says, "Mind stepping on the scale for me, Buck?"

He steps on the scale with his boots still on. The scale says: 184.

The body has made Steve unhappy.

Two weeks later Steve is looking at him. He looks –

Happy?

He says, "Want to hop back on the scale?"

The scale says: 190.

The body has made Steve happy. Steve moves his hand toward the body. Then it drops to his side.

Unacceptable.

"You can t-touch me," Bucky says. "I won't stab you or anything."

"I know you won't stab me, Buck," Steve says. "I just want to – respect your space."

"Is it because you think I got raped?"

Steve's face turns a weird color. It's pretty funny, actually.

"I did," Bucky says. "If that's what you were wondering. Got the b-b-bejesus raped outta me. Just the one handler, but it was a f-f-f-few – Christ, maybe five or six times. He must've fucked me about five or six times, until I snapped and bit his dick off and ran away."

"What?" Steve says.

"I bit his dick off and I snapped his neck and I killed six techs and I ran off. Ended up here. New York. I was coming off of the shit Hydra had me on, ants crawling all over me and all of that. It must have been some time in the seventies, I guess: a lot of guys on the street were right out of Vietnam. Saw a guy giving himself a shot and thought that maybe it would f-f-fix me. Fucking fixed me, all right. Christ, this time around I remembered smack before I remembered my fucking n-n-name."

"Bucky," Steve says. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

Unacceptable.

"Don't. Apologize," he says. "You and the goddamn k-k-kids are the only reason I don't shoot myself in the head."

He thinks he used to be able to read Steve's face.

He doesn't understand the expression on Steve's face.

"They," he says. "They put me by myself. In a cell. For. For six months."

Pain. The expression is pain. He knows how it feels on his own face. Steve says, "What?"

"While they were b-b-b-breaking me. After they took my arm. I was alone. For six months. It was – dark." He swallows. "Then they brought me out. The light, it – I screamed. There was a doctor. A psychologist. She asked me questions. I couldn't. I couldn't talk. She touched me. Like this." He puts a hand to Steve's cheek, then pulls it away. "They gave me a gun. They brought in a civilian. They said. They said shoot her and you will be touched again. You will not go back in the dark. So I shot her." He stops. "Later. The man who raped me. At first I thought – I thought he was kind. For touching me."

He looks at Steve. He tries to look at his eyes.

Oh.

Steve is holding him.

He says, "Please don't stop."

Steve says, "I'll kill the guy who tries to make me." 

 

*****

Sam's wrist-deep in a chicken when Steve texts him.

They haven't really hung out in a couple of weeks, other than Sam swinging by twice to make sure that Bucky hadn't stabbed anyone. Which is actually a little weird for them: since they both moved back to New York they've gotten a little codependent. Destroying an evil Nazi organization, going on a country-wide manhunt for a Soviet assassin, and getting some kind of gnarly food poisoning from an Applebee's in Pennsylvania before deciding to take the next step in their relationship and move to New York together will do that to a couple of dudes. (Technically, Sam had gotten the food poisoning and Steve had rubbed his back and brought him ginger ale and wrung his hands over his suffering like someone's gigantic sainted Irish mother, but Sam has chosen to redact the particular details of his having maybe puked on Captain America's khakis from the annals of their relationship. Steve, for his part, kindly refrains from bringing it up, just like Sam never brings up the time when Steve forgot that he is literally superhuman, tripped over his own feet, fell down an entire flight of subway steps, and landed on top of a tourist from Iowa, who proceeded to scream, "Fire! Help, fire!" while five other people recorded the whole thing on their cell phones, and a drunk homeless gentleman wandered past and said, “Hey, man, why do you gotta be yelling at Cap like that? That's not cool, man, he like _died for our sins_ or something.” Or at least he doesn't bring it up very _often_ , just maybe about once a month tops, because never telling anyone that story would be a _crime against hilarity_.).

So anyway, usually the two of them are pretty joined at the hip. But Steve's been all tied up with gazing soulfully into Bucky's eyes and tormenting two poor little orphan children who probably deserve better, and Sam's joined an indoor dodgeball league and has gone on three really fantastic dates with a beautiful lady who still hasn't figured out that he's the idiot who's always on the news dive-bombing weirdos with ray guns and then high-fiving the Hulk (What can he say? The big guy just really likes him, and Iron Man can go ahead and _stay_ mad about it). So basically they've both been busy. 

Actually, the beautiful lady is what the whole chicken business is all about: Sam's invited Claire to come over for a home-cooked meal on Friday, which means that he has five more days to learn how to roast a chicken as good as his mom's. He told his mom that over the phone, and she laughed so hard that he was genuinely concerned for her health and well-being. And also mad, because it's not right for a mother to be more supportive of Captain America than of her own flesh and blood, and he's pretty sure that if Steve was trying to learn how to roast a chicken, she would already be at his place with a roasting pan and a sack full of onions.

So Sam's phone plays a few seconds of Blitzkrieg Bop, which is Steve's text tone mostly because it confuses people, and Sam thinks something like, “Yes! Steve! I miss Steve!” because they have a very passionate bromance going on and would probably be sleeping together if Steve was a beautiful lady instead of the human equivalent of Ferdinand the Bull. Sam, of course, could stay just as he is, because Captain America thinks that Sam Wilson is, quote, “A very handsome guy with a really great smile,” unquote. 

But Sam has his hand up a dead chicken's ass, so it takes him a while to be in a fit state to touch his phone, and in that time Blitzkrieg Bop goes off a couple more times, which probably means that Steve has found more videos of otters on Youtube. Then he's finally gotten all of the chicken nastiness out from under his fingernails, and picks up his phone to open Steve's texts, and reads:

**Steve** Bucky just told me that one of his handlers raped him.

**Steve** And that right after they cut his arm off they kept him locked completely alone in a dark cell with no human contact for six months.

**Steve** I don't know what to do.

Well, shit. 

For one nasty little second Sam really wants to ignore those texts. He's been having a fun couple of weeks, and dealing with this unbelievable level of trauma? Not fun. But then he reminds himself that it's Steve, the guy who has never told a human soul about the time when Sam lay on the bathroom floor of a Holiday Inn in Pennsylvania and cried a little from cramps and self pity. So he girds up his damn loins and texts back.

**Me** are you with him right now?

**Steve** No. He just left.

**Me** ok man step 1 don't freak out, it wont solve anything. Step 2 meet me at that diner you found with the pie in 1 hr

**Steve** You want to eat pie?

**Me** pie is very good for trauma

**Me** trust me i'm a professional

**Me** don't argue with me Steven 

Sam makes it to the diner exactly one hour after he sends the text, and Steve is already there, poisoning the air with at least 75% more misery than can be produced by a non-enhanced human. Sam slides in the booth across from him. “Hey, buddy. Have you ordered yet?”

Steve just stares at him.

“It's dinner time,” Sam tells him. “Order some food.”

Steve orders pancakes, probably because the biggest and most visible word on the menu is “pancakes” and not because he actually wants some, because one of Captain America's superpowers is the ability to turn even delicious breakfast foods into some weird form of self-punishment. Sam orders a cheeseburger, because he wants one and has spent a lot of productive time in therapy.

“Ok,” Sam says when the food arrives. “Tell me what he said to you.”

Steve does. It's horrible, but there's also a good bit in it.

“So he told you that he wants you to touch him? That's really great, Steve. Him having that kind of trust in you, that can be almost impossible for people who have gone through stuff similar to what he's gone through. And him speaking up about his needs, too. That's all really good stuff. And it gives you something to do, right? You've got your orders right there.”

Steve looks almost offended. “So I should _hug_ him more often? That's the answer? That's the solution?”

“There's not a _solution_ , Steve. He isn't a Rubiks cube. Your job is to be there for him, listen if he wants to talk, and not make it all about you, which means not going off about how you're going to kill the guy who did it or whatever.”

“Can't. He did that already. Bit his dick off and then snapped his neck with his bare hands,” Steve says, and takes a bite of his pancakes. He looks a little happier.

“Well,” Sam says. “I mean, yeah, I guess that's definitely one way to sever all contact with your abuser.” Then he just eats his burger for a while, because he needs to take a moment. “So right, anyway, the best possible thing for you to do is to listen to him when he talks, and let him know that you love him and you're there for him. That's basically it right there.”

Steve looks as if they've ventured into the realm of astrophysics or something. “ _How_?”

“Well,” Sam says. “This is some crazy, out-of-the-box thinking, but hear me out. I've heard that in some cultures – like you know, those uncontacted tribes in the Amazon? – if they want to say that they love someone, they walk up to that person and say ' _I love you_.'” 

Now Steve looks like Sam just suggested that he sprout little rocket propulsors and rename himself Iron America. “I can't tell Buck that I _love_ him, we're not – we're not _like_ that.”

“Oh, come on, _seriously_ , man? You're _Captain America_ , you have actual _action figures_ , I think that your masculinity can take the hit.”

Steve looks unimpressed. “Normally when we want to express affection I tell him that his face looks like a piece of broccoli nailed to a post, and he calls me sugartits and tries to tap my balls. If I suddenly start telling him that I love him he'll probably think that Hydra's gotten to me.”

Sam just stares at him for a second. “You know, when they said you were from the past I hadn't realized that they meant _middle school_. Ok, fine, I'll come up with something else. Teaching gay war heroes to talk about their feelings for each other: just one of the many services that Sam Wilson provides.”

“I'm not gay,” Steve says. Sam just sighs. Steve sort of draws himself up a little. “ _Sam_.”

That's the Serious American Business voice, right there. Sam leans in a little to show that he's listening. “What's up?”

Steve swallows. “I loved Peggy. She wasn't a – a publicity stunt, or a _beard_ , or whatever you're thinking. I was _in love_ with her. And Buck – I love him too. And not just as _best friends from childhood_. I don't love him like a brother. I love him like I loved Peggy. As far as I know, that makes me bisexual, not gay. If you're going to insist that I call myself something it might as well be the right thing.”

He's blushing so hard and sitting up so straight with his ridiculous shoulders all squared like he's bracing for a punch that Sam could just squeeze him to death. “Aw, Steve, look at you! No, hey, Steve, come on buddy, don't hide under the table. Thanks for telling me. I'm really glad that you felt like you could tell me. So how does it feel to say it out loud?”

Steve wrinkles his nose. “Weird,” he says. 

Sam waits for a second, but that's all Steve's got. “Weird. Well, ok, that's fine. Learning to talk about our sexualities today: learning to talk about our feelings tomorrow.” He stops and snaps his fingers. “Yes, I've got it! How about you tell him that you're glad he's here?”

“What?”

“Oh, come on, it's perfect! The next time you're sitting around staring at him like he just rose out of the ocean on a clam shell, you can say, 'Hey, Buck, I'm really glad that you're here. It's great to have you here. Thanks for sticking around.’ Think you can handle that?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, and he smiles a little. “Yeah. I think that could work.”

“Great,” says Sam. “Man, feelings are hard. Want to shout about the Mets for a while?”

“ _Lord_ , yes, _thank you_ ,” Steve says. So they shout about the Mets for the next half hour, and Steve even finishes his pancakes.

A couple of days later a big square package from Steve arrives at San's apartment, which is great, because Sam loves presents. He rips the paper off, and then he just sort of stares.

It's an oil painting, and it's of Sam. Him in his wings, laughing, holding a flaming sword. And there at the bottom, in Steve's familiar copperplate: _Saint Michael the Archangel. Patron of paratroopers._

Sam thinks about Steve, then, on that train in the Alps, reaching for someone he loved and never grabbing hold. He thinks about his mother walking with his dad, hearing the shot and her husband's last ragged breaths. He thinks of himself looking back too late, smoke in his nose and ears full of static.

He thinks about Steve clinging on to what he loves, with that perfect young body and torn-up old heart. He thinks about his mom in her best church dress, faith like a tank in a world full of bullets. He thinks of himself, tired and numb, coming home with his best friend's dog tags in his pocket. He thinks about going forward, going on, keeping your head up. He thinks about paperwork and endless helplessness. He thinks, _I'm trying, at least I'm trying_. He thinks, _this is all that I have: please accept it._

Then he sits his ass down on his nice comfy couch and has the best damn cry he's had since Riley died.

The next day he hangs up the painting, but he doesn't put it in his office. He puts it in his living room, so he can see it every day. So that at his worst, when things start getting nasty, he can look at that thing and see what Steve does. That to Captain America, his good buddy Steve, Sam's not a worn-out soldier, not a footnote, not a two-bit shrink. That to someone, sometimes, in his better moments, Sam can be help that was sent straight from God. 

 

*****

Steve is reading in his living room and thinking about bed when Bucky comes oozing through the window, prowls over, and thumps down next to him on the couch. He's wearing his tac gear and his goggles, which look like they have dried blood on them. 

At this point, Steve is used to it. 

“Goggles off,” he says. “You know we have an agreement about the goggles in the apartment.”

“The mask is no longer permitted in any common areas of the apartment,” Buck says, taking his goggles off. They've left him with little red lines around his eyes. “No regulations were instated regarding any other piece of tactical equipment.” 

Sometimes it takes him a while to come down from – whatever it is that he does, when he goes out Revelating late at night. Last week, a bunch of cops in Long Island arrived at work to find a local accountant and homeless shelter volunteer waiting for them on the station steps. The man said that the Angel of Death had come to him and told him to make his confession. In his pocket was a USB stick with a video of him assaulting a seven year old girl in a back room of the shelter, along with three of his own toes.

Steve doesn't really approve of the Revelator's methods, but he supposes that they do get results.

“Well, I'm implementing new regulations. No tac gear in the apartment for longer than it takes to get cleaned up and changed.”

Bucky looks pained. “Boot. Removal?”

“Yeah, we're doing boot removal,” Steve says and gets down on the floor. They've gotten pretty good at this. This time Steve gets the first boot off fast enough that by the time Buck starts to ask about his orders he's already gotten to the second one. Steve rubs his calf with one hand. There's no way for this not to be awful and humiliating for Buck, but Steve always tries his best to make it as painless as possible. “Orders, huh? Well, I guess you should go take a bath once we've gotten your boots off. Then you can put on something more comfortable than your tac gear, and come back out here so we can talk for a bit before I go to bed. Ok?”

“Unclear mission parameters,” Buck mumbles. He sounds pretty tired. 

Steve tugs the second boot off and says, “Go take your bath, soldier.”

Buck gets back pretty quickly, still damp and wearing a pair of Steve's sweatpants and a t-shirt that Stark sent to him the day after they met. It says PROTECT YA NECK on it, which is apparently some kind of reference. Bucky loves it. Steve is not too proud to admit that annoys the heck out of him that Buck's favorite possession is something he got from Stark: he's been trying to find a really good Tupac shirt on the internet, just to even the score a little. It's been difficult. He's gathered from Bucky that the main traits that he values in the man are “didn't suffer any fuckin' bullshit” and “eyelashes longer than my dick,” which aren't particularly useful search terms on Amazon.

Usually Buck lingers in his bath more, but today he seems like he's more interested in climbing all over Steve than he is in soaking. He gets like this sometimes after he's been Revelating: like he's desperate for contact that isn't violent. Now he crawls into Steve's lap, presses his face into his neck, and shakes. Steve just holds him. Buck mumbles in Russian for a bit, the shaking getting harder, and Steve rubs his back and murmurs the few soothing phrases that he knows in the same language. 

After a while Bucky sighs, rolls off of him, sprawls out onto the sofa and says, “ _Christ_.”

“Long night?”

“Y-y-yes,” Bucky says. He starts patting absently at the pockets of his sweatpants. 

“You left a pack of smokes in the kitchen yesterday,” Steve tells him. “If that's what you're looking for.” 

Buck goes to get them. Steve hears the stove turn on: Buck lighting his cigarette on the gas burner. He comes back in with his cigarette in one hand and an empty mug in the other, opens another window without prompting, and then comes back to cuddle up against Steve's side again. Steve kneads his flesh-and-blood shoulder with one hand. “Remind me to buy you an ash tray.”

“The mug. Is adequate.”

“Wow, that's real classy of you, Buck. You're a real swell,” Steve says.

“Accurate,” Buck says. “Can you.” 

Steve gives him a moment, then prompts him gently.

“Can I what?”

“Can you read to me?”

Buck has trouble reading now: any text longer than a paragraph or so makes his head hurt and his eyes blur. He says it was to keep him from being able to look at his own files or other information that Hydra didn't want him to have. He didn't tell Steve about it until even after he had told him about being raped: in some ways Steve thinks that Bucky feels more violated by the loss of his books than anything else. He'd always been a big reader. He'd loved the pulps, but he'd also loved the good stuff: Steve remembers him reading lines from Henry James aloud. “ _Get a load of this, Stevie, how this guy can talk about things, like you never saw it before and now it's all laid out in front of you_.” Steve had promised a few days ago that they could read aloud together, like Buck had always done for Steve when he was sick. Now he says, “Yeah, sure, Buck,” and grabs a book that he picked up from the library.

“This was published in '39, but I guess it's a classic now. I don't remember if you read it before the war. I guess you probably don't either, huh?”

Bucky just shrugs. “Anyway, I thought you might like it,” Steve says, and starts to read.

“It was around eleven o'clock in the morning, mid October, with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness of the foothills. I was wearing my powder-blue suit, with dark blue shirt, tie and display handkerchief, black brogues, black wool socks with dark blue clocks on them. I was neat, clean, shaved and sober, and I didn't care who knew it.”

Buck barks out a little laugh, then leans his head onto Steve's shoulder. “What are you s-s-stopping for?”

Steve smiles at him, gone all dizzy at the sound of that laugh, and has to search around a bit before he can pick up the thread of the book again. “I was everything the well-dressed private detective ought to be. I was calling on four million dollars.”

The book goes down like a strawberry milkshake: Buck is completely tickled by it, pulled back into himself by it, talking back at the characters and heckling Steve into doing all of the voices and laughing out loud at all of the funny bits. Eventually Steve has to take a break from reading because Buck is talking exclusively in a dumb gangster-moll voice, and Steve is laughing too hard to keep going. 

“Hey,” Bucky says, once they've settled down a little. “You remember what I said the other day? About g-getting the bejesus raped outta me?”

Steve puts down the book. “It wasn't really the kind of conversation that just slips your mind, Buck. Why?”

“You w-w-w-want me, right? I mean, in the queer way?”

“Uh,” says Steve, whose brain has just blown a fuse, maybe.

Buck is staring at him. “Just answer the question, slugger.”

“I, uh,” says Steve. “I mean, _yeah_.” He thinks this probably isn't the answer he should give to this question as posed by his traumatized and mentally fragile best friend, but the thinking, sensitive part of Steve's brain wasn't first up to bat just now.

“Thank fuckin' God,” Buck says. “M-m-me too. I mean, I want _you_ , n-not me. I'm not _that_ much of a narcissist. Anyhow, I thought I should let you know that I'm fucked up.”

“Buck,” Steve says, as nicely as he can. “I mean, I know that. I just helped you to take off your own shoes.”

Bucky gives him the look that Lily calls Bert-Face. Steve found a video of Bert and Ernie on Youtube to see what she meant, and yeah, that's pretty much what Buck's face does. Steve and Mikey agree that it's adorable. Lily and Sam think that they're both completely out of their minds. “Thanks, hotshot, that makes me feel r-real good about myself. No, I mean, fucking. I c-c-can't do it. Can't have anything inside of me like that. And, uh, I don't think I can manage sticking it in anyone else, either. Or sucking a dick.”

“Buck,” Steve says. “You know we've never actually kissed?”

“Yeah, I know, and I know how you get all starry-eyed and all, so I w-w-w-w-w—” he stops, scowls, and takes a breath. “I _wanted_ to _warn_ you that I won't be riding your d-d-dick into the sunset.” He tics, as if for emphasis. Steve blushes.

“Do you really have to talk like that?”

“Like what, about me bouncing on your dick? Why? Does it m-m-make you uncomfortable?” He's grinning. He thinks he's pretty damn clever. “I shouldn't t-t-talk about me working myself open and sliding down onto your big hard – ”

Steve socks him in the shoulder. Buck gets his thumbs into the ticklish spot under Steve's ribs. Steve writhes like an eel, then tugs on Bucky's hair to make him stop. Buck shrieks. “W-what the fuck are you, s-seven years old? F-fight like a _man_ , Steven. ”

“ _Never_ ,” Steve says, and beans him on the head with a throw pillow. Buck gives Steve a wet willy. Steve twists Buck's right nipple through his shirt. Then they sort of just slap at each other for a bit, because two matched sets of supersoldier reflexes make it hard to find an opening to give someone an indian burn.

They call a truce, panting.

“So when you say you _can't_ ,” Steve says, “You mean, uh – ”

“I mean, it ain't b-b- _broken_ ,” Bucky says. “I can still get off and all. It's just _shy_ , you know? Like a classy dame with sensitive nerves.”

“Oh, well, that makes sense then,” Steve says. “That is what I always think of when I think about your johnson. A classy dame. With sensitive nerves.”

“Aw, you've been th-th-thinking about my dick, sweetheart? I'm _flattered_.”

“Oh, yeah,” Steve says. “It's one of the only four things I ever think about. You know: liberty, justice, your dick and the asshole it's attached t– ”

Bucky tackles him to the floor. They grapple for a while. Steve lets Bucky pin him, and then just lies there on his back while they giggle at each other like a couple of knuckleheaded kids. Buck's eyes won't meet Steve's, but he looks happier that Steve's seen him since before the war, probably, and a dumb little corner of Steve's brain thinks, _I did that_.

“So fuckin' _pretty_ you are,” Buck says and presses a kiss to Steve's cheek.

Steve raises his eyebrows. “You've got pretty bad aim for a sniper.”

“Oh yeah?” He's smiling, soft and easy. “Where's my target?”

Steve puckers up and bats his eyelashes, because it's easier to joke around about it than to try and be serious when his heart's hammering like it is right now. Buck goes “ugh,” and covers Steve's mouth with his hand. 

Steve says, “I'll lick it, see if I don't.” It comes out pretty muffled.

Buck pulls his hand back and kisses him.

It's – well, a little anticlimactic, after waiting this long. A quick little kiss, over before Steve can even start really processing it. But still.

He'll take it.

Bucky panics and goes out the window.

Ten minutes later he climbs back in again, looking a little ashamed of himself. Steve pauses Call the Midwife and refuses to look ashamed of himself. It's a great show. “That was a little dramatic even for you, hotshot.”

“I'm not. _Dramatic_ ,” Bucky says. Sounds like he's having trouble talking again. 

“Yeah, ok,” Steve says. “Want to come sit with me?”

“Yes,” Bucky says and pads on over. They cuddle and watch Call the Midwife. Buck hates it. 

“It's. _Boring_. No one gets. Killed.”

“Geez, guy, don't you get enough of that at work without bringing it home with you, too?”

Bucky snorts, kicks Steve in the ankle, and then lies down with his head in Steve's lap and says, “Touch. My hair,” like he's the Queen of Sheba. Which is great: the Asset of Hydra would never have gone around bossing people around like that, but Buck sure as hell would if he thought he could get away with it. And he always could, with Steve.

“Yessir,” Steve says and starts working the tangles out of Buck's hair with his hands. At first it seems to trigger the tics; the twitching and grunting come on so hard and fast that Steve is almost scared. But Buck seems comfortable, and soon the tics settle down, and Buck's nuzzling his face into Steve's lap like a big cat and making these nice little sounds whenever Steve's fingers hit a new spot on his scalp, before eventually he falls asleep and starts drooling on Steve's sweatpants. 

Steve gives his shoulder a little rub. “Hey, Buck?”

Bucky's eyes open, his whole face instantly alert. “What.”

Steve screws up his courage. “I'm just – thanks for staying, Buck. Thanks for being here. I'm really glad you're here.”

Bucky blinks. Considers.

“Me too,” he says. “I'm glad. I'm glad that I'm here, too.”

Steve's pretty sure it's the best day he's ever had.

 

*****

Mikey and Lily had thought that living with the Revelator was bad, but they were just foolish children back then, because living with Captain America? Is so, _so_ much worse. 

So according to Cap him and John have been best friends for, like, a _million_ years, so Lily had expected Steve – he wants them to call him Steve, which is _so weird_ , because he's _literally Captain America_ – to be kind of like John. You know, like, all nurturing and shit. But he is _not_. He is the _opposite_ of that, and it is _terrible_. 

So what Steve is like, ok: no matter how early you wake up, he is already awake, and probably all glowy from his morning run, and halfway through his second cup of coffee and reading an actual paper newspaper like he's still in the olden days. And he's all cute at first, you know, like inviting you upstairs and making breakfast for you and shit in his tight little t-shirt, and making Mikey want to literally die so that that can be the last thing he ever sees. But then you sleep through your alarm or you're late for school or whatever like _two times_ , and he goes _straight-up evil._

So at the end of the first week they're living below him they hear a knock on the door, and they open it, and it's Steve, looking all nice and innocent and everything, and he says, “Buck says you were almost half an hour late to school twice this week.”

So they're all, “blah blah, super-long commute now, blah blah, we'll do better!” and Cap crosses his arms across his stupid giant chest and says, “Hm.”

Then two days later they're late for school again. That night they have family dinner at some weird vegan restaurant, which was Steve's idea, and he's all excited because _you can eat anything they have here, Buck, they've already gotten rid of most of the problematic stuff for you_. And like legit, ok, it's pretty cute, and John is all sighing and rolling his eyes and secretly loving it. 

Then John says, “Goddamn kids. Were late again. Their homeroom teacher. Yelled at me.” He's a little tired today: Lily's pretty sure that he shot someone before he came to pick them up. His eyes were going everywhere like he needed his fix, but his trigger hand was all steady. If he hasn't just shot up his hand only stops shaking when he's been holding a gun.

Steve smiles a little, because he's always smiling at John all sappy. Sometimes Lily just wants to grab him and shake him and tell him to cut that shit out, because John's not that handsome guy in the uniform anymore, he's a crazy fucked-up addict, and Steve's never even lived in a shitty squat with him and had to help him when he was all scared and yelling in Chinese and shit, so why does he think _he_ gets to smile at John like that all the time? But you can't shake Captain America, it's probably illegal and also you'd give yourself some kind of sprain, because he's the size of about three normal people. So she just glares at him a lot. 

Steve says, “She yelled at you? Really?”

John does Bert-face. “She yelled. With her eyes.”

“Well,” Steve says. “That's ok. We just need to change how we do things.”

Mikey says, “ _Girl_ , I am _not_ going running with you in the middle of the night, that's like _torture_ or something.”

“You'd slow me down too much,” Steve says, all smug and shit. “Reveille will be at oh-five-forty-five tomorrow.”

“Christ,” John says, “You've done it now, kids, mom's made a plan. Nice knowing you.”

Mikey says, “Wait, what?”

The next morning Lily wakes up because it's the _end of the world_. 

I QUOTE IN ELEGIACS ALL THE CRIMES OF HELIOGABALUS, IN CONICS I CAN FLOOR PECULIARITIES PARABALOUS, screams a terrible voice. 

She goes running out into the living room in her pajamas trying to figure out where that sound is coming from so she can _kill it_ , and Mikey's there too, kind of running around all frantic with his hands over his ears like, “ _Oh my God what is that make it stop aaahhhhhh!_ ”

Steve turns off the stereo.

Then he smiles and says, “Good morning, recruits.”

They both stare at him. He just keeps smiling. “Breakfast starts in – ” he checks his watch. “Thirteen minutes. Mess closes at oh-six-twenty. I'd suggest that either one of you comes up and uses my shower, or you learn how to clean yourselves more quickly. Try shooting for five minutes: they do it in two in the Navy.” Then he just kind of floats off.

There's French toast for breakfast. It's really good. Lily and Mikey still hate Steve, though, who is drinking coffee and smiling at his newspaper like he thinks he's really cute.

Lily sends John a text. _he's disgusting and evil and I hate him why did you do this to us fuck you john_

John responds right away; he's probably climbing around on a roof somewhere right now, and there's good reception up there. He sends her a picture of the American flag. Then he sends her a poop emoji.

Lily hates them both.

A few days later it's Saturday, and Lily and Mikey are messing around in their living room. Lily's watching Say Yes to the Dress. Mikey is trying to make fashion sketches with some colored pencils he bought, but he doesn't really know how to draw the people, and they're coming out all lumpy and weird. Then there's a knock on the door, and they both scream, “ _Come in_!”

Steve pokes his head in. “Buck's coming by for lunch in about an hour. Do you two want to eat with us?”

“ _Yes_!” Mikey screams. Lily rolls her eyes.

“Um, duh? We haven't seen him in like _two days_.” He's been busy with some mysterious shit he's doing, so he hasn't even come to pick them up after school or for family dinner. 

“Ok,” Steve says. “We're having split pea soup.”

Lily makes a gross face, because _ew_. Steve says, “You can direct your complaints to the chaplain.” Then he sees what Mikey's doing and gets all perky and interested. “Hey, champ, what're you drawing?”

“Nothing, it's just some stupid shit – oh my God, I'm the _worst_ , sorry, I owe you like a _million_ nickels.”

Steve goes to sit next to Mikey on the floor. “You know, I used to do some fashion illustration. For pattern catalogs, mostly.”

Mikey stares at him like he just said he used to be a cow or something. “ _You_ did? But you're like, all _ripped_ and _masc_ , and, like, good at _shooting people_ and sh – stuff.”

Steve kind of snorts a little and looks down at himself like he doesn't really know what he's looking at. “I guess so, huh? Pretty weird. Don't say I'm good at shooting people in front of Buck, though. He's got a kinda different point of view on the subject.” He looks for a bit at Mikey's pictures. “You've got a good eye for color.”

Mikey kind of flops down onto the floor and screams a little into the rug. Steve looks up at Lily. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, he's just really excited that you complimented him,” Lily says. “Because he thinks you're all cute and sexy and he wants to like, marry you or something.”

“ _Oh my God shut up you whore_!” Mikey says. Then he screams some more into the rug. Captain America looks a little weirded out.

Eventually Mikey gets it together, and Steve says, “Has anyone ever taught you how to draw a croquis?”

So Steve shows Mikey how to draw the little model for fashion illustrations and explains about, like, _balance lines_ , and _nine heads_ and all of this stuff, and Mikey does a good job paying attention even though Lily can tell that he really just wants to scream into the rug for the rest of his life. Steve even draws each step by itself to help Mikey remember, and at the end he makes a real illustration with the clothes and everything, an old-fashioned looking dress and a big swoopy hat. He says, “I know that the clothes are the interesting part, but it's a good idea to practice your croquis as much as you can before you get to that.” Then he checks his watch. “I should go up and finish lunch. I'll text you when Buck gets here,” he says, and leaves. 

Mikey rolls around on the ground. “ _He's a perfect beautiful angel and I'll never be good enough for him how is my life so terrible oh sweet lord Jesus take me away_ ,” he says. Then he starts drawing croquis over and over so he doesn't disappoint Captain America with bad fashion illustrations. 

So then like an hour passes and Steve doesn't text or respond when she texts him all, _is john here yet_? Which is a little weird, but sometimes he just, like, forgets that he lives in the future and doesn't check his phone, especially when he's hanging out with John and they're telling each other dumb jokes and like, punching each other, because they are _childish_. So Lily goes upstairs to see what's going on. Steve's door is open like always, so she just looks into the living room, and _oh, shit_.

Because oh yeah, John is here all right, and he and Steve are like five minutes away from actually doing it right there in the living room. Like, they're on the couch, and John is kissing on Steve's neck and working on the buttons of his shirt with his metal hand, and Steve has his hands behind his head like he's being arrested, which is weird. But his eyes are closed and his head's thrown back, and he's saying, “ _Lord_ – Buck, we _can't_ , the kids – ” in this roughed-up sex voice.

Then John laughs and says, “Come on, sweetheart, you're gonna m-m-m-miss your window here, this classy dame ain't about to stick around all day,” and Lily sneaks away really quietly before she gets caught watching them like some kind of pervert.

She goes downstairs and tells Mikey. “John and Steve are making out on the couch like they're thirteen or something.”

Mikey doesn't even scream. He just stands up and goes very quietly out the door and upstairs, because he is some kind of pervert.

He comes back downstairs about two minutes later. He says “Lily. _Lily_. I have seen the light. I am changing my ways. I'm going to be _so good_ , Lily. I'm going to get up on time every day, and eat all of my vegetables, and read everything in my whole history textbook, and never ever swear again without giving Steve a nickel, and then one day, when I'm grown up, _God will let me be the ham in that sandwich._ ”

Lily says, “Ugh, I'm pretty sure that God doesn't want to know anything _about_ your weird homosexual threesome fantasies.”

“I just saw Steve topless,” Mikey says. “God is _so completely on my side_.” His eyes go all dreamy. “He blushes, like, _all the way down_.”

“That is _weird_ ,” Lily says. “You're a weird nasty child and God is probably looking down from heaven shaking his head at you right now. There are probably angels crying because of you.”

“You are _so unsupportive_ ,” Mikey says. “I'm going to my room.”

“ _Ugh_ , do _not_ let me hear what you're doing in there,” Lily yells after him. 

Ten minutes later Steve texts her to say that the split pea soup is ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference for the references!
> 
> 1\. Ghostface Killah is a member of the Wu-Tang Clan who sometimes performs/records as Iron Man. Protect Ya Neck is a (classic!) Wu-Tang Clan song. 
> 
> 2\. Bucky sends Steve Kid Kudi's "Erase Me." Steve sends Bucky "Sugar Pie Honey Bunch (I Can't Help Myself)" by the Four Tops, because Steve is a big fan of classic Motown.
> 
> 3\. The book Steve is reading to Bucky is "The Big Sleep" by Raymond Chandler. If you're even remotely interested in American popular culture from Bucky and Steve's era, or in the art of attaching words to other words, get thee to a library and check it out.
> 
> 4\. Steve torments the Goddamn Kids with the Modern Major General song from Pirates of Penzance.


	6. The Book of Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky has a bad night. The Revelator has a better morning. Music is performed. Steve gets some action. The Goddamn family does some bonding. Huang Ayi lays down the law. Steve and Bucky make a pact. Bucky writes a letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *endless screaming into the rug*
> 
> Guys. GUYS. You are all amazing. A couple of quick general notes:
> 
> This week I received two requests to make podfics of this story (!!!! ilu guys) so here's a blanket statement that I honestly didn't think I would have to make because I assumed no one would be interested: yes, you absolutely, 100% can make podfics, art, translations, interpretive dances or whatever else you want out of my nonsense. You are a precious creative jewel and I love you. Just link to the original when you post, and send me a link so I can advertise your shit on here.
> 
>  
> 
> WARNINGS for this chapter: discussion of past animal death and the threat of violence toward an animal. A fairly detailed discussion of a suicide attempt and further discussion of suicide. Some violence and some sex stuff.
> 
> Finally, if you enjoy Huang Ayi and non-word-salad German, please thank my kickass beta reader  
> [Vaysh](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaysh/pseuds/Vaysh), who provided the German dialogue and suggested adding Huang Ayi's POV to this chapter.

Buck usually has good days and bad days.

Steve's pretty sure that today counts as a FUBAR day.

Bucky came tumbling in through the window a few hours ago, all disheveled and disoriented and wildly ticcing and completely unable to speak. Not just in English: Steve tried in German, Russian and French, and the only response he got was 190 pounds of cybernetically enhanced mayhem making frustrated noises and trying to fit itself into Steve's lap. So now Bucky's had a bath and is all cozily kitted out in his sweats and his new Tupac t-shirt, and has started checking all the electronics in Steve's apartment for bugs. Steve is trailing after him, feeling even more useless than usual. “You don't have to do this, Buck. Stark's AI scans everything that I own automatically.”

Bucky makes another frustrated noise and continues his sweep. It takes him another ten minutes, after which he pastes himself to Steve again. Steve sighs. “Yeah, ok, hotshot. We might as well give up for today. Want to go to bed?”

Bucky nods, then heads straight into Steve's room and gets under the covers. Steve climbs in after him, and Buck sort of wriggles backwards until his back is pressed up against Steve's front. Steve laughs. “We're spooning, huh?”

Bucky tics a few times, then makes an affirmative sound. 

They spoon. It's not long past nine in the evening, but Steve thinks he could sleep. It's a little cold in his room. He presses closer to Bucky's back. I need a quilt, he thinks. A new quilt. Something colorful. Almost everything in his apartment now is in the neighborhood of beige, and it's only recently occurred to him how depressing that is.

Bucky makes a high, thin sound. A ragged gasp of pain.

“Buck,” Steve says. “Buck, hey, hey, what is it? What's wrong?”

Then Bucky speaks, his voice slurred and distant, as if he's talking in his sleep. As if each word comes from somewhere far away and apart from him. “Why died I not from the womb?” he says. 

Steve's heart sinks. He knows that line. Buck helped him to memorize it when they were both seven. “Buck, are you – ”

“Why did I not give up the ghost when I came out of the belly? Why did the knees prevent me? Or why the breasts that I should suck? For now should I have _lain still and been quiet_ , I should have _slept. Wherefore_ is light given to him that is in misery, and life unto the bitter in soul, who _long_ for death and dig for it more than for hid treasures, who rejoice exceedingly and are glad when they can find the grave?”

Steve reaches out for him. “Buck –”

Buck turns over and looks him straight in the eye, and in his eyes there's nothing but hatred, nothing but _fury_ , and he wraps his metal hand around Steve's throat and starts to squeeze. “Is it _good_ unto thee that thou shouldest oppress, that thou shouldest despise the work of thine hands?”

Steve doesn't struggle. Doesn't resist. Puts one hand to Bucky's cheek. 

Steve knows, from experience, that he can go without oxygen for approximately three minutes before he falls unconscious. That doesn't make the process of being slowly choked to death any more pleasant. The pain of the metal hand is secondary to the burn in his lungs, the frantic voice in his head telling him to _breathe breathe breathe breathe breathe._

He pushes the voice back. Keeps himself calm. Looks Bucky straight in the eye. 

Bucky's eyes are so blue. Bucky is so far away.

 

The grip on his throat slackens. Steve pulls in a deep, desperate gulp of air, knowing that every breath will ache for hours. Bucky looks – 

Shattered. He looks shattered like a cup. 

“I am full of confusion,” Bucky says, and he starts to cry. He cries silently, tears running down his face as if he isn't aware of them, as if they're nothing but water. “Therefore see thou mine affliction; _for it increaseth.”_

Then he says, “I – my _head_ , I – _Stevie_ , what's h-h-h-h-h-h –”

Steve pulls him into his arms. “Hey, Buck. I've got you. Just get some rest, ok? Don't worry about it. You'll feel better after you've gotten some sleep. I'll take watch.”

“You're h-h-h-holding me,” Bucky says. 

Steve says, “I don't want you to be cold.”

The next morning, when he wakes up, Buck's already gone.

 

*****

 

Steve sends Bucky ten frantic texts and calls him four times before he gets a response.

 **Buck** wtf sweetheart I only left your place two hours ago

 **Buck** why the hysteria

 **Buck** did I have an episode or something

 **Me** You had a pretty rough night last night. You don't remember?

 **Buck** No

 **Buck** fuck sweetheart did I hurt you 

**Me** It's fine, don't worry about it. I'm just glad you're ok.

 **Buck** Don't worry about it??? well I'm fucking worried now asshole

 **Buck** You stay right where you fucking are

 

He comes back in through the window half an hour later, sees Steve's throat and hisses. “Jesus fucking _Christ_ ,” he says. “Was your p-p-p-plan to just hope I didn't n-n- _notice_?”

“There wasn't really a plan,” Steve admits. Bucky snorts, goes to the kitchen, and comes back with a bag of frozen peas. Steve frowns. “What brand are those?”

“Uh,” Buck says, squinting at the package. “Green Giant?”

“Those are eating peas. The, uh, injury peas are the other bag.”

Bucky goes to swap out the peas, strips off his t-shirt, and wraps the injury peas in the shirt. Then he holds the peas to Steve's neck. He says, “You know you've got some kinda f-f-f-fucked-up lifestyle when you've got d-d-dedicated _injury peas_.”

“Well,” Steve says, “At least I can say that I don't have dedicated violence goggles.” He wriggles a little. “That's _cold_.”

“Yeah, that's the p-p-p-point, hotshot. Jesus, I'm so fuckin' _sorry_ , sweetheart. What the fuck happened? Nightmare or something? You've got my fuckin' _hand print_ on your neck.” He tics a couple of times, which is something of a relief, because he can't keep glaring at Steve like he wants to set him on fire while he's ticcing.

“I'm honestly not really sure what it was. It was fine. You started to squeeze my neck and then you stopped.”

“Just like that, huh?” Buck doesn't sound particularly impressed by this explanation.

Steve sighs. “You came in and you were confused. You couldn't talk, and you wanted to check everything in my apartment for bugs. I got you into bed and you started reciting from the Book of Job and then choked me. Then you fell asleep.”

“Jesus,” Buck says. “I'm a real spooky motherfucker, ain't I? What the fuck were you _thinking_ , g-g-g-getting in bed with me when I was acting like that?”

“You were acting _confused_ , Buck, not _murderous_. Before the choking thing you just really wanted to be the little spoon.”

“I'm _always_ acting m-m-m-murderous, it's the fuckin' factory setting. Christ, the goddamn _kids_ know better than to g-g-get near me when I'm acting weird, and sometimes I worry that Lily's right about M-mikey being a crack baby.” He sighs, pulls the bag of peas away, and inspects the bruise. “How long's it going to take you to heal that up?”

“Few hours,” Steve says. “Faster if you kiss it better.”

Buck cracks a little grin. “You're a real charmer, huh? R-real smooth,” he says and presses his lips to the chilled skin of Steve's neck. Steve jumps a little. 

“Your mouth's so hot.”

“Yeah, s-so I've heard,” Buck says, and sucks lightly on a bruised spot.

Steve gives a little hiss. “That _hurts_.”

“In a good way or a b-bad way?”

“Uh,” says Steve. “Good way. Can I touch you?” 

“All right. But don't go getting all fresh with me, Rogers, keep it above the b-b-belt.” 

Steve puts his hands on Bucky's waist. “Can I kiss you?”

“Sure,” Bucky says. “Why the fuck not. W-worse that'll happen is that I'll choke you some more. No tongue, though. I don't like it when things get shoved in my mouth.”

They kiss. Steve sucks a little on Bucky's lower lip, which makes Buck shiver. “Fuckin' weird,” he says.

“What?” 

“Having to l-look up to kiss you. Like I'm the d-d-dame or something.”

“You don't look much like a dame to me. Well. Except for the hairstyle.”

Buck tics, then flicks Steve's ear. 

Steve says, “Besides, not like we ever did it the other way around. You leaning down for me.” He pauses. “How often do you forget stuff, Buck? Like you forgot last night.”

“Pretty often. Probably lose about an hour most days, sometimes more. I lost t-t-t-two days once. The kids said I d-d-didn't do anything too weird, but from the taste in my m-mouth I hadn't brushed my teeth the whole fuckin' time.”

Steve rubs at the back of Buck's neck with one hand. Bucky sighs. “Fuck, sweetheart, don't get all s-s-sad about it.” He tics three times in a row, then kisses at Steve's neck again. “You mind if I c-call you that?”

“No,” Steve says. He blushes a little. “I like it.”

“Yeah? Would've hated it, before.”

Steve considers that. “Yeah. It would've felt – condescending, I guess. Now it's just nice. I mean, I think you're the only person on earth who thinks I'm _sweet_. Everyone else thinks I'm – I dunno. A windup toy that punches people.”

“N-n-not true,” Buck says. “W-w-wilson says s-sometimes he wants to put you in a basket and carry you around with him.”

Steve smiles. “Sam. Yeah. He's a funny guy.”

“He's your b-b-best friend, huh?”

Steve frowns. “Not that I've got a points system or anything, but I think that title still goes to you, Buck.”

“Really,” says Buck. His voice is very flat.

Steve nods. “Really.” He cards his hand through Buck's hair some more. “How much do you remember? About before?”

Bucky gives a hoarse little laugh. “Shit. We're t-t-t-talking about that now, huh?” He pushes his head back a little into Steve's hand, encouraging the touch. “I remember – some stuff. Going out dancing. Picking up girls. Reading Buck Rogers comics with you on the floor. This g-g-guy, this tall black guy, I think we were making time together? I remember him. I remember these little girls, must be my sisters: it's all a little blurry. I remember my d-d-dad slapping my mom around, tossing me down the fuckin' stairs. I remember everything always smelling like coal smoke and cabbage. I remember, _shit_ , I remember t-t-t-teaching you how to open a bottle of beer against the side of a table, and you busting yours open and cutting up your hand.”

“I bled like a stuck pig,” Steve says, a little awed by how suddenly the memory comes back all together: the sour-sweat smell of spilled beer, the sting of the cuts.

“Wasting p-p-perfectly good beer like a damn punk,” Buck says. “What else – I remember – fuck. Maybe I'm twenty? Around twenty. And I've got this new suit on, and I want you to tell me that I l-l-look good in it. And you tell me I look like Cary Grant and put your thumb on my m-mouth and ask me if I want to fool around, and I'm standing there like an asshole thinking about how much I want to suck on your fuckin' thumb.”

Steve feels like he's been punched in the stomach. That's the worst kind of hit, he thinks. People who have never fought always think that it would be the face, the head, but it's a solid punch up under the ribs that really takes it out of you, that keeps hurting long after other bruises have faded. “You remember that?”

“Y-yeah. What's wrong, champ? And h-h-here I thought you liked it when I remember shit.”

“Of course I do, Buck, it's just – you said no.”

“What?”

“You said no, Buck. Turned me down flat.”

“I did?” He frowns. “ _Why_?”

“Well,” Steve says. “I guess you just didn't want me.”

“N-n-no,” Buck says immediately. “I did. I _remember_.” He's doing Bert-face. “I'd ask if I was drunk, but I make excellent d-d-decisions when I'm drunk, and that was a _stupid fucking decision_.”

Is it disloyalty, to be happy when he hears it? Which Bucky is the real one, the one who said no or the one who's saying yes? Will he change his mind when he remembers?

_Do I want him to remember?_

Steve buries his face in Buck's neck. 

“Thanks,” he says. “I thought so, too.”

 

*****

 

The next day Steve's phone almost buzzes right off of the coffee table.

 **Stark** Cap

 **Stark** Cap

 **Stark** Cap

 **Stark** Cap

 **Stark** Cap

 **Me** Is there something that I can help you with?

 **Stark** Yes there is in fact and its bringing your loyal boy companion to my tower so that I can play footsie with him and also give him that grenade launcher that he specifically asked for because he is a visionary who lacks the capacity to realize his dreams in the way that I can 

**Stark** because i'm a genius who makes dreams come true

 **Stark** also to have dinner 

**Stark** that was pepper's idea

 **Stark** something something normal people something Steve something common courtesy something

 **Stark** anyway I'm sure that she's right about the common courtesy though I keep telling her that the notorious JBB has evolved beyond that kind of thing

 **Stark** so I'll see you at my place in the tower at seven, casual attire, your presence is the only gift that we need etc. etc. etc. I would tell you to bring some wine but honestly I shudder to think of what we would end up drinking

 **Stark** do they sell wine at the dollar store?

 **Stark** no wait don't answer that I feel better not knowing anything about what happens inside of a dollar store

 **Stark** pepper says that I should ask about dietary restrictions is that something that hydra encourages in their cyborg assassins? Is JBB gluten free? 

**Me** IF we decide that we're coming tonight, which we haven't yet, he'll need something vegan and easy to chew. 

**Stark** was that a joke?

 **Stark** it wasn't was it 

**Stark** I want to find this hilarious 

**Me** If people having their teeth knocked out and being fed nutritional slurry through a tube for 40 years is funny to you, then yes, the whole situation is hilarious. I'm only telling you this because he doesn't really have a concept of privacy about this kind of thing anymore, by the way: they kind of tortured that out of him too. 

**Stark** yeah ok touché no laughing at the torture victim, don't want to trigger some kind of episode

 **Me** Oh, you can laugh at him, he won't mind, it's all really about whether or not you want to be the kind of guy who mocks the world's longest-serving POW for having been systematically dehumanized by a Nazi terrorist organization.

 **Stark** yeah ok so you're coming to dinner right?

 **Stark** Bruce is coming

 **Stark** Barton is coming

 **Stark** Romanov may be coming or may still be in Bucharest, difficult to say

 

Steve sighs and knocks on the bathroom door. 

“Buck? Have you drowned in there yet?”

“N-not yet.” Bucky sounds good: relaxed and cheerful. He's been in the tub for about an hour. Steve's pretty sure he's been jerking off in there. There's the sound of sloshing around, and then the tub draining. “Why? Hoping I'll die so you can inherit?” 

“Yeah,” Steve says. “It seems easier than just buying my own Tupac t-shirt.”

“Hey, y-you'd also get a couple of k-k-kilos of high-grade heroin and a real nice set of combat knives,” Bucky says. “Only lightly used.”

“There's a combination that really puts a guy at ease. So, hey, want to go to Stark's place for dinner tonight? No problem if you don't, I can always just tell him to take a walk.”

The bathroom door opens and Bucky steps out. Today he's wearing a new t-shirt, one he bought himself with his dollar store earnings. It says GANGSTA RAP MADE ME DO IT. “Ghostface wants us to c-c-come over for dinner?” He looks pleased. 

“I think it was Ms. Potts' idea,” Steve says. “Stark doesn't usually eat meals, from what I can tell. Ms. Potts is his, uh – ”

“I know who sh-sh-she is, champ, I googled Stark Industries after I met Ghostface. She's one hell of a dame, huh?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “She's a real nice lady, too; you'll like her a lot.”

Bucky looks down at himself and gives a crooked little grin. “Can I meet a CEO dressed like this?”

Steve takes him to Nordstrom. 

Buck does well in the store, even if he tracks all of the other customers with his eyes and never puts his back to an exit. He lights up around all of the clothes, excited like a little kid, and Steve ends up buying him a bunch of stuff, including a lambswool sweater in a soft, nubbly pinkish color that Steve's surprised Buck would go for. Buck starts eyeing up the suits, but Steve shakes his head. “Stark would actually whine me to death if I didn't bring you to his tailor for a suit.”

Steve takes the bags home and Bucky vanishes for a bit, presumably to go shoot up. He reappears two hours later, takes a bath, and gets dressed in his new gladrags. The pink sweater makes the hard V of his torso very obvious, and his new jeans are, if not _tighter_ than his tac gear, certainly more flatteringly cut. Steve can't stop staring. Mikey, when he sees him, makes a sound like a steamboat whistle. “Oh my _God_ , bitch, look at _you_ , looking _snatched_!”

Lily says, “Wow, you actually have, like, _color_ in your face when you wear things that aren't black.”

Bucky says, “I'm always looking s-s-snatched, it's parta my charm.”

Steve says, “Snatched?”

 

Buck decides he's not up to taking the L into Manhattan, so they call a cab. They neck for a bit in the back seat, in the romantic atmosphere created by driver's loud bhangra music and the three vanilla air fresheners valiantly attempting to mask the scent of stale vomit. 

“I always thought that f-f-fooling around in the back of a cab instead of down an alley was how the swells did it,” Buck says, then puts his ear buds in and cuddles up to Steve's side, apparently satisfied with his glimpse into how the other half lives. 

Steve says, “Watcha listening to?” 

“Young Thug,” Buck says and offers one of the earbuds to Steve. Steve listens for about fifteen seconds before he hands it back. 

“I feel as if I should be apologizing to someone right now.”

“Ain't n-nothing wrong with putting that crack in your crack when the cops pull up,” says Buck. “That's just good fuckin' b-b-business sense.”

They get to Stark's apartment promptly at seven (the facial-recognition security system recognizes them as “Captain Rogers” and “Guest of Captain Rogers,” which is a lot more subtle than what Steve has come to expect from Stark), and are greeted by Ms. Potts, who gives Steve a kiss on the cheek and then turns a big, gentle smile on Bucky. “Sergeant Barnes. It's such a pleasure to finally meet you.” 

“P-p-pleasure's all mine, ma'am,” Buck says, and shakes her hand. Her eyes crinkle up a little: apparently the Barnes charm still works. She also doesn't react at all to the stutter, for which Steve is very grateful. Buck doesn't need to be made to feel any more self-conscious about it.

She leads them into Stark's living room, which Steve always thinks is something like a cross between a modern art gallery and the lobby of an expensive hotel: a carefully-arranged combination of the overpriced, the impersonal, and the uncomfortable. Stark appears, yammering away at a mile a minute to Buck about his arm before he's even halfway into the room, and then suddenly switches topics. “Just so you know, those windows? 100% guaranteed everything-proof. I've tested that glass with bullets, rockets, jet propulsors, an armed drone, a Norse god of thunder, and flying into it at Mach two with the suit, which was possibly with the clarity of hindsight not the best idea I've ever had, but definitely conclusively proved that they are very hard to break. Though that should be self-evident, because I designed them.”

Bucky tears his eyes away from the floor-to-ceiling windows and tests out a little smile. “G-g-g-good to know.” 

There's a piano in the room along with all of the weird post-modern furniture, an enormous grand that's always spotlessly free of dust and, to Steve's knowledge, never actually played. Now that he isn't watching the windows for snipers Buck notices it, and his eyes light up a little. "Ain't that a beaut."

Pepper smiles at him. "Do you play?"

Buck shoves his hands into his pockets. "Not so's anyone would n-n-notice, ma'am."

"He's great," Steve says, happy as a clam. "He used to do the accompaniment for our school recitals."

"Thanks, ace," Bucky says. "Warm 'em up with the thought of a p-p-public school recital."

"I think it sounds wonderful," Pepper says. She makes an encouraging little shooing gesture toward the piano. "Won't you, Sergeant Barnes?"

"Yeah, go on, Buck," Steve says. Bucky pauses for a second, then ambles on over to the piano and sits down on the bench. He lifts the lid almost reverently, then pauses for a second. "I ain't – I mean, I haven't ever p-p-played with this," he says and holds up his metal hand. "Might not g-go too well." Steve feels a sudden, helpless surge of love for him: for the way he's trying to talk right around a classy dame like Pepper, for the little worried crease in his forehead behind that easy grin. Steve could kiss him right now, in the sight of God and Iron Man.

Bucky runs a few scales, then stops and looks up, his eyes wide. 

"I have. I have played with it before. I remember. The S-soviets. They l-l-let me play. Made me play." His head jerks. His accent has driven right out of Brooklyn, headed north, and made a hard left turn when it hit Alaska. "To learn to use the h-hand. To learn. Discipline. I had to. P-p-practice. Piano and – ballet? They taught me ballet." His eyes go distant for a moment, then refocus. "They brought me to a dinner party. To show how I was. Progressing. I wore a Red Army uniform. I p-played for." He stops. " _Comrade Khrushchev_?" He laughs, soft and incredulous. Then his expression clears, and he gives a big shit-eating grin. "Well," he says, "Here's what I played for the leader of my b-beloved Motherland," and he launches into a piece Steve doesn't recognize. 

The music is beautiful, and obviously extremely difficult, and Buck plays it like it's being torn from his chest. Steve notices Stark's eyes go wide. He realizes, with a little uneasy twist in his stomach, that this was all the Red Room's work: Buck had always been musical, had sung and danced all the time since he was a kid, but he had never been able to afford the lessons he needed to improve. Now he's obviously a tremendously good pianist: there's nothing even remotely amateurish or playful about what he's doing. It makes Steve's throat ache to think about. How even the most human parts of Buck have been honed to razor-sharpness. Even his joy has been weaponized.

Buck, Steve thinks, must come to the same sort of realization, because all of a sudden he jerks his hands away from the keys and goes completely, inhumanly still. For a second it feels like everyone's holding their breath. Then he plays a few jazz chords and looks up at Steve.

"Hey, pal, remember this one?" he says and starts another song. This time he sings, too. Steve can see Pepper smiling, taken by surprise. " _Bay mir bistu sheyn, bay mir hostu kheyn, bay mir bistu eyner oyf der velt. Bay mir bistu gut, bay mir hostu it, Bay mir bistu tayerer fun gelt,_ " he sings, in that big scratchy tenor that Steve remembers. Steve is grinning fit to topple over.

Buck gallops through a verse and the chorus again while occasionally pulling faces at Steve over his shoulder. He finishes with an exuberant little klezmer riff that makes Steve laugh, then slides off the bench to Pepper and Steve's applause, looking half-pleased, half-embarrassed.

"Of course I remember that song, ya mook," Steve says. "Remember how much Becca used to love that Andrews Sisters version?"

"Nope," Buck says, but he looks relaxed about it, happy. "I like m-my version b-b-better anyhow."

"I've never heard those lyrics before," says Pepper. 

Buck smiles at her. "That's because they're the original Yiddish. Seeing as how I'm an original Yid."

Steve starts slightly. Back home Buck had never even admitted to being Jewish when people came right out and asked him about it, let alone brought it up himself. 

“You know,” Stark says, “I grew up hearing more than I ever needed to know about Cap, and you were in a lot of those stories. But somehow the old man, along with _every single one of your biographers_ , seems to have completely missed the whole ‘Bucky Barnes, star of Jewish Vaudeville’thing.”

“Yeah, well, my being a Jew wasn't information that I w-w-went spreading around,” Bucks says, almost nonchalant. “I got _biographers_?”

“Well, not as many as Cap, but sure, yeah, I'd say you have a few biographers. Jarvis, how many biographies are there about Sergeant Barnes?”

“Three, sir,” Jarvis answers. “Sergeant Barnes is identified as being of Irish descent in all three. There seems to be some debate as to whether he was a Catholic or a Protestant.”

“Huh,” Buck says. “You got some k-k-kinda butler living in your ceiling, Ghostface?”

“I am an artificial intelligence,” says Jarvis. “My name is Jarvis. It's an honor to meet you, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Well, s-s-same to you,” says Buck, who seems fairly delighted to be talking to a robot. “Hey, Mr. Jarvis, do any of those b-b-biographies say anything about me being a queer?”

There's a stunned silence, into which Jarvis says, “I don't believe so, sir.” 

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “I didn't go spreading that around either.”

“ _What_?” says Stark. “You're _gay_? I didn't know that. How did I not know that? I feel as if I should have known about there having been a _gay Howling Commando_. Did my _dad_ know about this? Cap. _Cap_. Did _you_ know about this? Is this going to be a problem, am I going to have to fetch some smelling salts? Is there anything that we can do for you, Cap? You're looking a little pale, are you feeling all right?”

“Yeah,” Steve manages eventually. “I knew, Stark.” And then, because he's never been able to watch Bucky march into battle without charging in right after, he says, “From, uh. _Experience_.”

There's another silence.

Stark says, “What.” Then he says “You? You and Barnes. _You_? As in, _you_ , you. _Captain America_ you.”

“Yes,” says Bucky. Steve jumps a little. He hadn't noticed Buck walking over, but now suddenly he's right beside him, shoulders back, stance wide, as unmovable as a concrete bunker. “Do you have. A problem. With it.”

“Whoa there, terminator!” Stark says. “I have absolutely, 100% _no_ problem with you or any of your loved ones being members of the gay community, and even if I did I would never under any circumstances _admit_ it to you, because, frankly, you are the most terrifying human being I've ever met, either despite or possibly because of the fact you're currently wearing a _very_ fashion-forward pink sweater – which now that I think about it probably should have been my first clue about your whole homo thug thing. So you guys are what, what is this, a couple? You're a couple. Cap has a boyfriend. Wait, let me try that out, hold on, just hold on a second. 'Hi, I'd like to introduce you to my dear friend Captain America, and his boyfriend, the Winter Soldier.' Ok, yeah, no, that's still i _ncredibly_ weird. Not that there's anything wrong with it! Please don't shoot me.”

Bucky says “Homo thug, huh?” in a thoughtful sort of way. 

“We're both almost 100 years old,” Steve says. “No one is anyone's boyfriend.”

“Oh, _Steve_ ,” Pepper says. “I'm so _happy_ for you.”

She does look very happy. 

Steve blushes.

Bruce walks in, then, which just makes everything even worse. Stark immediately blurts out, “Cap and the rock 'em sock 'em robot are a couple!”

Bruce blinks. “Oh,” he says. “Congratulations?”

Bucky kind of stalks over to introduce himself, and Bruce shakes his hand with much more ease than anyone else has managed so far. The fact that the Other Guy could easily stomp the Winter Soldier to death under one big green foot probably has something to do with it. Steve is blushing so hard that he thinks his skin might actually peel off. Buck, of course, notices, and comes rolling back over. “Hey,” he says, quietly enough that only Steve can hear. “You l-l- _like_ that little science man.”

“Bruce is a great guy,” Steve says, trying to sound casual.

“No,” Buck says. “You _like_ him. D-d-don't try to fool me, champ, I know that f-f-fuckin' look. You want to kiss on that t-tiny science man.”

“I _don't_ ,” Steve says. “I just – he was nice to me. When I got here.”

Buck's face softens. “Aw, sweetheart. Who was mean to you? I'll cut their fuckin' fingers off.”

“ _Not necessary_ ,” Steve says, and is fortunately rescued from further discussion of his embarrassing crush on Bruce by Pepper, who announces that dinner is served, as Natasha has confirmed via anonymous text message that she may or may not still be somewhere in Eastern Europe, and everyone has long since given up hope that Clint will ever manage to arrive to a meal on time.

They're having Italian food. After the soup course Steve gets some sort of lamb thing – it's very good – and Buck gets a vegan risotto, which he approaches with his usual wariness and then practically inhales while simultaneously carrying on a very high-energy conversation with Stark about the mechanics of his arm. Steve decides to forgive Stark for the whole outing-him-to-Bruce thing. Buck looks so _happy_.

Then the door opens, and a big yellow dog bounds in, followed by a big blond man. Steve is about to address a cheerful, “Oh, hey, boy!” to Lucky and Clint both when Bucky jumps onto the table. Steve has exactly enough time to stupidly register admiration at how he did that without so much as disturbing one of the water glasses before Bucky snarls, "Halt bloß den Scheißköter fest!" 

The room is silent except for the sound of Lucky happily prancing around his owner, oblivious. Steve regains control over his brain. “Clint! Clint, it's the dog, _get the dog out of here_ – ”

Bucky somehow pulls a pistol out of his nicely-fitted jeans, and Steve has a hysterical moment thinking about Buck's crack in the crack joke from the cab ride before Buck trains the gun on the dog. “Ich knall das verdammte Vieh ab, wenn es nur einen Zentimeter näher kommt." His hand is completely steady, but his face is dead white. _He's scared_ , Steve realizes suddenly. _He's terrified_.

Clint grabs Lucky by the collar and hauls him out of the room. 

There's quiet.

“Buck,” Steve says. “It's ok. The dog's gone. Nothing's going to hurt you. Can you come down?”

Bucky doesn't respond, doesn't even seem to register that someone is speaking to him. Steve tries again, this time in his rusty German. "Alles gut, Buck, der Hund ist weg. Clint lässt nicht ihn wieder herein. Du kannst von dem Tisch runterkommen." 

He can _feel_ the room being surprised that he can string together more than two words in a foreign language, which would be annoying if he wasn't focused on Bucky right now. “ _Soldat_. Do you copy?”

Buck's eyes flick toward him. Steve gives him a little smile. “Hey, champ. There you are. Get down off the table, ok?”

“Acknowledged,” Buck says and jumps off the table as lightly as he jumped onto it. Then he takes a loud, gasping breath. Steve can see Pepper start slightly. Buck is panting now, struggling to breathe, his eyes wide and frantic. Steve stands up and goes to him, wraps his flesh-and-bone wrist in one hand.

“Buck. Hey. _Soldier_.”

Buck's eyes go to him again. It's as if he can't help himself. Steve winces, but then thinks, _needs must_. “Soldier. Listen to me. You're having a panic attack. This has happened before. You aren't sick, you aren't in danger. You just have to breathe. I want you to copy my breathing, now. That's an order.”

Buck obeys. What else would he do? He obeys perfectly, gets his breathing under control almost immediately. Steve pulls him in close. “Hey,” he says softly. “Hey, champ. You with me?”

“Yeah,” Buck says. “Yeah.” Then he says, more loudly, to the room at large, “I'm sorry. I'm s-s-s-s-s—“ He breaks off and makes a sound a little like a sob. 

“Hey,” Clint says. “Don't apologize.”

He's returned to the room alone and is standing near the doorway, his hands shoved in his pockets. “Torture and brainwashing,” he says. “I mean, you _get_ to be a little crazy, right? Or you'll just, y'know. Go crazier. I mean, um, that sounded better in my head. But I get it. _Seriously_.”

Steve presses a kiss to Buck's forehead. He lets everyone see him do it. Then he says, “Thank you for dinner, Tony, Pepper. I think we're going to go home.”

 

Buck vanishes to shoot up first. Then he comes back in through the window and apologizes over and over. “I'm sorry, I'm so fucking _sorry_ , I f-f-f-fucked it all up, emb-b-barrassed you in front of your friends – ”

“Buck,” Steve says, “You've embarrassed me about a million times in my life, but this wasn't one of them, ok? You telling Peg about how I wet the bed until I was seven was embarrassing. There was _nothing_ embarrassing about what happened tonight, ok? _Nothing_.”

Buck's sitting on the couch and Steve's sitting on the floor facing him, rubbing Buck's feet. They've already gotten his boots off, and Steve figured he might as well stay down here for a while. The vantage point is interesting. His rug could use a vacuum. Or to be replaced. Why doesn't anything in his apartment have any _color_ in it?

Bucky perks up a little. “You w-w-wet the bed until you were s-s-seven?”

“Oh good,” Steve says. “I reminded you.” He works his thumbs into the ball of Buck's right foot. “Is this ok?”

“Yeah, it's real nice,” Buck says. “You don't gotta d-do that, ace.”

“I _like_ doing it,” Steve says, which is true. “I'll get your back for you later, ok? Your arm still giving you trouble?”

“Little,” Buck mumbles. “ _Fuck_ , that feels g-good.”

They move things to the bed. Steve rubs Bucky's back, tries to work out some of the knots on the left side. Steve can tell from the way that Buck moves sometimes at the end of the day that his back bothers him, though God forbid the guy ever admit that he's in pain. Some dumb, childish part of Steve's brain wants to insist that if Steve could just _fix_ it, fix everything – Bucky's back, his teeth, his stammer, his stomach, his tics, his every memory of the past seventy years – that Bucky would quit the drugs. That he'd move in with Steve. That he'd _stay_. 

The better, more rational part of his brain thinks that at least rubbing Bucky's back is one thing that he knows he can do for Buck that will do him more good than harm. Sometimes he thinks that all he ever manages to do for Buck is cause more harm.

He says, “I've been thinking about taking a massage class.”

“ _Christ_ , Steve, you d-don't have to – ”

“I _want_ to. Besides, you need someone to be taking care of your back, and I guess you won't be letting some stranger rub on you any time soon.”

“Yeah, ok,” Bucky mumbles. “C-cut it out. Want you to fuckin' s-spoon me.”

Steve grins. “World's deadliest assassin, huh?”

“Yeah, I get real c-cranky when I ain't spooned when I want it.”

They spoon. Steve nuzzles his face into the back of Bucky's neck. Buck says, “I s-smell pretty good huh? Used your aftershave and everything.”

“Sure do,” Steve says. “You smell like me, and I've been told that I smell like freedom.”

“You smell like b-bullshit to me.”

“Yeah, that's the scent of liberty.”

Bucky gives up and just laughs silently into his pillow for a bit. Then he says, “What would we talk about if we weren't always t-talking so much shit?”

“Hmm,” says Steve. “I'd probably mostly just talk about how handsome you are.”

Buck stiffens slightly. “Yeah, sure, handsome like a nice p-plate of chopped liver.”

“Hey,” Steve says. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Buck's silent for a second. Then he says, “I want to tell you. About the dogs.”

 

He gets out of bed and flicks on the bedside lamp. "The dogs," he says. "It was. A training exercise. Near the b-beginning. When I was still Zola's project. When I." His face is blank. "When I could s-s-still be afraid. They put me in a room. Naked. N-n-no weapons. Then they l-l-let them in."

He strips, fast and efficient, then lifts his right leg to show Steve his calf. There's a ovoid scar there. A bite mark. "There were three. First one g-got me here. Second here." He rotates to show Steve a patch of angry-looking scar tissue on his left thigh, this one a little concave, like the animal had managed to rip off a chunk of flesh. "I went down. They started –" He points to two spots on his torso, his left hip and the right side of his ribcage, where he's clearly been... gnawed on. "Then –" He tilts his chin to the side, shows the right side of his neck. Steve steps closer to look. There's a second one of those perfect ovals there, this one silvery and faint. "I was. Afraid. I wanted to die. But I was afraid. So I – with my l-l-left hand. Killed them.” The fingers of his metal hand clench and then unclench, one by one. “Later. The targets had d-d-dogs, sometimes. They can tell. Animals. They can t-t- _tell_. That there's something evil. Something coming. They would try to k-k-kill me. I had to kill them first.” His eyebrows pull together a little. "I liked them, before. Dogs. Didn't I?"

"Yeah," Steve says. "You always – you always liked animals." He swallows. "I want to hug you, but it seems kinda weird with me dressed and you naked."

Buck says, "So take your f-f-fucking clothes off."

"Yeah?"

"Y-yeah."

Steve takes his clothes off. Buck says, "Holy fuckin' smokes."

Steve blushes. He says, “Nothing you ain't seen before.”

“Yeah,” Buck says, “but not when I had t-time to enjoy the view.” Then he says, “Ain't right, me touching you. Like Apollo necking with F-f-f- _frankenstein_.”

Steve says, “You're the handsomest guy I know, Buck.”

Bucky snorts. “I look like a fucking c-c-crime scene. I just t-t-told you that I killed a bunch of dogs with just my fuckin' evil robot hand. You want to tell me I ain't a monster?”

Steve steps in closer and clasps Buck's left hand in his own. “Yep.”

Bucky laughs a little. “You're a g-goddamn maniac, you know that? You're even crazier than I am.”

“Yep,” Steve says and kisses him.

Buck leans into the kiss, puts a hand on Steve's hip and nips at his lower lip. Steve pulls back a little. “Where do you want my hands?”

“C-can you,” Buck says. “Like last time?”

Steve laces his hands behind his head, and Bucky says “fuck,” and lathes his tongue over Steve's right nipple. Steve _squeals_ , taken off guard, and Buck laughs and steps up his offensive, licking and sucking and _biting_ at Steve's chest until Steve is panting and rutting mindlessly at Buck's thigh.

“Please,” he says, “Oh wow, _please_.” 

Buck pulls back and says “Touch yourself.”

Steve does. “Can you – _please_ , miss you – ”

“I'm here,” Buck says. “Right with you, sweetheart. You want to t-touch me?”

“ _Please_ ,” Steve says again, because he's been reduced to a vocabulary of about five words.

“Ok,” Bucky says. “Above the w-waist, though. S-sorry.”

Steve says, “Don't apologize,” and cards his fingers into Bucky's hair. Buck gives a surprised little groan of pleasure, then wraps his metal hand around the back of Steve's neck to haul him in for a kiss. He's touching himself too, now, jerking himself off with his human hand, and the sight and sound of it sends dizzy shocks through Steve's whole body. Bucky breaks the kiss, presses their foreheads together. 

“Sweetheart,” he says. “My guy, my gorgeous little guy with his smart f-fucking mouth, _Christ_ , such a fucking _idiot_ I was, saying no to you. Used to think about c-coming home and pulling you into my lap, such a p-perfect fucking armful you were, tough as fucking nails, would have taken it so _good_ for me, honey, would've been so good to you, taken such good care of you, fucked you so sweet, given you what you needed, would've made you _moan_ for me, sweetheart. You haven't fucking changed, haven't changed a goddamn b-b- _bit_ where it counts, babydoll. You know who takes care of you, sweetheart?”

“You,” Steve says, and when he talks it's 1939. “You do, Buck, ain't no one else, swear to God, never been no one else I wanted for a minute like I want you, never a minute, I'll do whatever you want, Buck, cook and sew for you, shine your shoes, be on my knees for you when you get home, just tell me, tell me you want me and you got me – ”

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Buck says and then they're kissing again, sloppy and desperate, and Steve comes, and Bucky follows not long after.

 

*****

 

Lily is in a disgusting, awful, terrible mood, and Mikey is _so fucking over it._

Ok, so, it's been a few days since they've seen foster daddy for more than like an hour, which is sad and Mikey _hates_ it, especially when they're starting to think that he's not even, like, _superheroing_ , he's just busy being a junkie. Because when they first met John he was shooting up three times a day, and now it's way, way more than that, and if he won't let them see him do it anymore, then that means they basically don't get to see _him_. And they miss him, like, _crazy_ much. But that doesn't mean that Lily has to be a huge bitch to _other_ foster daddy about it.

So like, ok, Steve _totally_ finally got some love last night, because when Mikey and Lily go upstairs for Saturday breakfast he's acting all shady and blushing and smiling to himself and not looking straight at them. And Mikey's like, “ _Steve_ , you dirty girl!” and Steve blushes even redder like a delicious patriotic strawberry. 

Then Lily says, “You _fucked John_?”

Steve says, “Watch your language.”

She says, “He's fucking _crazy_ , he can't even, like, _consent_ , what is _wrong_ with you?”

“Oh my God, _shut up_ ,” Mikey says. “If John can consent to shooting heroin and blowing people up with his giant fu– _fricking_ guns he can consent to getting dirty with _Captain America_ , that's like the _least bad decision he's ever made_.”

Steve says, “Mikey. It's ok.” Then he looks at Lily, all handsome and serious and _perfect_. “Lily, I understand that you worry about him. I know that you love him and you're afraid of him getting hurt. So I'm telling you right now that he's the one in charge. He calls the shots. I don't get anywhere near him unless he asks me to.”

“That's _stupid_ ,” Lily says. “He just wants to make you _happy_ , you think he's about to say _no_ to you?”

“Lily,” John says from where he's apparated behind her chair all creepy junkie-Voldemort style. “I'm not. A child.”

They all kind of scream, because _how does he do that_? John looks at Steve and smiles. “Hey.”

Steve smiles back and blushes some more. “Hey.”

John grabs a piece of toast off of Steve's plate and starts eating it, because he's a criminal and that's how they do. Steve doesn't even care, he just stares at John like he just rode in on a unicorn or something, which is normal, and John stares back at him the same way, which is new, and there's like singing bluebirds and sparkles and flower petals flying around their heads, and Mikey is _dying of romance_.

“I think you guys are, like, each other's _Patronuses_ or something,” Mikey says, because _accurate._

They _both_ Bert-face at him. Steve says, “Pardon?”

“ _Oh my God_ ,” Mikey says. “Girl. _Girl_. Harry Potter? How have you not read _Harry Potter_? You, like, _love_ reading.”

Steve looks a little nervous. “It's for children?”

Mikey looks at him all unimpressed. “Hooker, we are going to pretend you did not just say that. You finished reading that weird detective book to John, right? It's perfect, you can read him Harry Potter now so you both don't have to be all sad and ignorant anymore!”

John looks happy. “Y-yeah, Steve,” he says, “read me Harry fuckin' Potter.”

“Ok, ok,” Steve says, all laughing and everything. John comes over to where Mikey's sitting and acts like he's going to take Mikey's toast too, but Mikey smacks his hand. “Bitch, go make your own toast.”

“Aw, I th-thought we were friends,” John says. “I came over so w-we could watch M-magic Mike like you wanted.”

“ _OhmyGodIloveyousomuchyou'rethebestfosterdaddyever_!” Mikey says. “We're skipping the first one though, the second one is _so_ much better.”

“You t-two wanna watch?” John says. Steve and Lily make matching stink-faces. 

Steve says, “I was going to head to the gym. Lily, want to come?” Which is _bad_ , because their old foster dad was always telling Lily that she was a fat bitch and needed to go to the gym, so the gym is, like, _sensitive_ for her.

Lily curls her lip up like she smells something nasty. “Why,” she says, “because you think I'm _fat_?” 

“No,” Steve says, “Because I think you're about as mad as a hornet at the whole world right now, and when I get like that I like to hit a heavy bag until I bust my knuckles up. I thought maybe you'd like to try it.”

“Oh,” Lily says. “Like, um, boxing?”

“Exactly like that,” Steve says. “You know how to throw a punch?”

“No,” she says, “but I know how to fire a Glock.”

“We can _totally_ provide cover fire if the FBI shows up,” Mikey says. 

Steve gives John a _we'll discuss this later_ look. John just kind of shrugs, like, _what_? Steve says “Yeah, ok. I'll teach you. You got any clothes you don't mind getting sweaty?” He's been talking more like John lately, his grammar all ignorant and everything, because they're basically merging into one extra-sexy gay superhero with, like, really good manners and a really bad drug problem. 

So Lily and Steve go off to be all super masc and punch things and stuff, and John and Mikey watch Magic Mike XXL, which is amazing like always. John agrees, even though he keeps comparing all of the actors' bodies to Steve's body and deciding that they aren't as good, which is probably true but also _ruining the movie, shut up John._

When the movie is over John runs away to shoot up, but he must have, like, some stuff hidden away nearby like some kind of junkie squirrel, because he comes back really quickly and then sits around on the couch all relaxed and goofy waiting for Steve to come home. And then Mikey tells John that he wants to learn French, because _fashion_ , and can John teach him? So John puts on this French pop song that he says is about not having a dad and teaches Mikey French pronouns and what different family members are called. Then they have a dance party, which is what they're doing when Steve and Lily get back. They're all bro'd out and putting each other in headlocks and stuff like they're in a frat together, because _male bonding_. 

Mikey screams, “John's teaching me French!”

Steve says, “Oh, uh, is that what this is?”

John dances up on Steve, who looks like he doesn't know what to do with his eyes. Or, like, any other part of his body. “We're expressing our f-f-feelings about _nos pères_. H-hey, _none_ of us had half-decent dads around when we were coming up. We oughtta f-f-form some kinda club.” 

“My dad got gassed in the Great War,” Steve says. “I'm not _mad_ at him about it.”

“Still d-didn't have a decent dad around,” John says. “Still in the club.”

Steve says, “I think that they already have that club. It's called _The Avengers_.” He frowns a little. “That's actually kinda weird, isn't it? I mean, it's not like we screen for it. I should ask Sam about it, maybe it's some sort of psychology thing.”

“You know who else could be in that club? _Harry Potter_ ,” Mikey says, and stares at Steve really hard so that he knows that Mikey _means business_.

Steve goes off to do some errands, and that night when Mikey and Lily go upstairs for family dinner there's a new red and blue rug in Steve's living room – the fancy old-fashioned kind from India or somewhere like that – and the first two Harry Potter books are sitting on the coffee table. After dinner John cuddles up to Steve on the couch, and Mikey cuddles up to John, and Lily thinks she's too cool to cuddle so she just sits in the armchair by herself but kind of cuddles a little with all of them with her eyes. 

Then Captain America says, “Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.” 

This is the best day of Mikey's entire _life_.

 

*****

 

A few days pass when Steve only sees Buck for dinner and reading: he shows up every day around six, and is out the window again before ten. It's driving Steve a little crazy, especially with the memory of what they did together the other night crowding out the last pitiful remnants of Steve's dignity and self control. So when Steve wakes up in the middle of the night to the soft sound of Bucky's boots on the floor he turns toward it, smiling a little into the darkness. "Hey," he says. "No boots in the bed. I just changed the sheets."

Buck flicks the light on. "I need some help."

Steve squints at him for a second, then sits up with a jolt. Bucky's black t-shirt is soaked through with blood.

"What the – _Lord_ , Buck, what the heck happened?"

"Got a little h-held up at work. And, uh. Stabbed. Need you to stitch me up." He holds up his hand so Steve can see how bad his tremor's gotten. It had never gotten that bad a few weeks ago. It takes a lot more heroin, now, to keep it at bay. Steve pushes that thought away and forces himself to listen to what Buck's saying. "C-c-can't do it myself."

"Ok," Steve says. "Did they hit anything vital?"

"If they had I w-wouldn't be asking you to stitch it up."

"What, you'd go to the hospital?"

"I'd call Ghostface. Bet he's got some kinda f-f-facility. And he wouldn't go all h-h-h-hysterical like you would."

"I wouldn't –" He gives up. "We're doing this in the bathroom. I don't want blood on my clean sheets."

Buck sits on the toilet so the Steve can stitch him up. The stab wound was a glancing blow off of Buck's ribs, shallow but long and bleeding heavily. Steve swabs it with disinfectant and starts to stitch. Buck is impassive about being repeatedly stabbed with a needle to the point that it's unnerving: he barely seems to notice. Steve says, "So who was dumb enough to try and stab you?"

"Some Russian assholes. I was dealing with this crack dealer who's been going all fuckin' O.K. Corral in my neighborhood and got j-j-jumped. Guess they thought I was D-daredevil. Too fucking bad for them that they m-m-mixed us up." He grins.

"You mean because they didn't get the guy they wanted?"

"I mean because Daredevil and I are operating under a different k-kinda philosophy of crime fighting."

"Oh, right," Steve says. Daredevil doesn't kill people. Or, Steve figures, cut their toes or fingers off. "I should see the other guy, huh?"

"N-not much to see, really," Buck says.

Steve raises his eyebrows. "Because the guy's fine, or because you left nothing but a greasy spot?"

Bucky smiles.

Steve finishes stitching, scrubs the area down with disinfectant, and slaps a bandage over the whole mess. Then he helps Buck out of his clothes and sponges down the rest of him and hands him a pair of sweats. "You're sleeping here tonight."

Buck pulls on his sweatpants and shakes his head. "G-gotta go, sweetheart. You got a t-shirt I could borrow?"

"Yeah, but – don't go, Buck," he says, knowing that he must sound pretty pitiful. "Stay with me."

"I can't, ace. Told you, I got h-held up. Kinda hurting over here." He puts his metal hand to Steve's face and gives him a little kiss. "I'll come by tomorrow morning, all right? I'll bring some fuckin' b-b-bagels or something. You still like the raisin kind?"

"Yeah," Steve says. "Buck – you know you could stop. All of this Revelator stuff. They've got cops for that kind of thing."

Bucky's expression goes blank. " _Fuck_ cops. What the fuck do fucking c-c-cops do? Arrest junkies for fucking doing what they gotta do, arrest girls trying to make a fucking living, fucking shoot innocent f-f-fucking kids. You know how Mikey got in the system, Steve? His ma died, and his dad's in prison. Know why his dad's in prison? Some cops brought him in for s-s-selling weed, and the judge gave him twenty years. _Twenty years_ , Steve, for fucking _reefer_ , and now that sweet fucking little boy's all alone in the fucking world. Maybe you think this shit doesn't matter, maybe it's below your fucking p-p-pay grade now, maybe you don't get out of bed for anything less than a goddamn alien invasion. But normal f-f-f-fucking people getting ground into the dirt by the regular goddamn shitsucking world _matters to me_." He stops, then, and his eyes widen. "Fuck. _Fuck_ , Steve, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that, sweetheart, you know I didn't, you know I – _Christ_ , honey, I'm just a fucking junkie, I turn into a real mean p-piece of shit when I'm hurting. Hey, sweetheart. Forget I said any of that, ok?"

"Yeah," Steve says. His throat aches. Because it's true, all of it, everything that Buck just said, even if he feels bad now for having said it out loud. Steve should be helping people. He should be doing something of his own with the gifts that he's been given, not just sitting around and waiting for his latest CO to give him an order. Even if the very thought of heading out and looking for trouble makes acid rise up in his throat. It can't be any worse than knowing what a failure he is, what a _disappointment_ he is to the only person in the world whose opinion really matters. 

"Yeah,” he says. “Ok. Ok."

Buck's eyes have gone a little wild. "Fuck. _Fuck_. I'm sorry, sweetheart, I'm so fucking – _fuck_ me. I gotta go," he says, and he leaves.

Steve slumps back against the wall. His shoulders hitch a few times, but he manages to stop it. Gets himself back under control.

When he rubs at his eyes they get smeared with Bucky's blood.

 

*****

The Revelator is having an excellent morning.

Nikita Vladislav is not.

"Muhammad Khan," the creature says. It steps a little harder on Nikita Vladislav's neck. "Sound familiar?"

Nikita says something rude in Russian. The creature says something even ruder back. Then it says, "I gotta say, a protection racket, part of me kinda likes it. Brings me back to the rosy-tinted days of my innocent youth. Real old-school, huh? Is that the idea? You can call me Betty and I can call you Al?"

It pulls a knife out of its belt and flips it. "I don't particularly object to Betty. But." It throws the knife through Nikita's hand, then waits for the screaming to die down. "You ain't a _fifth_ of the professional Mr. Capone was. Frankly, you're an embarrassment to the whole fuckin' concept. _Organized crime_ , Jesus fuckin' Christ, I've dug through buy-one-get-one bins at the dollar store that were more organized than you sorry fuckers. You know that Mr. Khan's hip got broken when your boys went to rough him up? The man's seventy fuckin' years old, he don't heal up too fast anymore, might never walk again because of your candyass bullshit. Also, one of your boys stabbed me last night because he thought I was fuckin' Daredevil. Don't get me wrong, I'm fuckin' flattered, kid's got an ass that won't quit, but getting _stabbed_ , that fuckin' irritates me, it really does."

"What do you want?" says Nikita, as well as he can through his tears. 

The creature smiles.

"Good news, sweetheart. I want one of two things, and you can pick which option you like better. Option one: you take the money you've taken from Mr. Khan and other upstanding local businesspeople for your shitcan services and you give it back, with ten percent interest and a sincere apology for acting like such a goddamn jackass. Option two: I take that knife sticking out of your hand and use it to carve a hole in your skull, and then I _fuck you in that hole_." It lets up the pressure on Nikita's windpipe a little, and smiles. "Feel free to take a moment to think it over."

Nikita picks option one.

The Revelator is walking out of the building, singing its favorite song, when it freezes. "Fuck," it says. "I forgot about the fuckin' bagels."

 

*****

 

The morning after he stitches up Bucky Steve is woken up by a horrible shrieking.

At first he thinks that it must be the kids getting their revenge for the Pirates of Penzance, but then he realizes that the volume's too low: someone must be listening to whatever this is for reasons other than violating the Geneva Conventions.

He finds Bucky in the kitchen, sitting on the counter next to a full-looking paper bag in his tac gear, smoking a cigarette and flipping through an old National Geographic. He's hooked his phone up to the kitchen speakers, which is the source of the terrible caterwauling. He waves the paper bag at Steve. "M-morning, sweetheart. I brought bagels."

"Oh, thanks," Steve says. “Were you Revelating this morning?"

Buck says, "Only a little."

"As long as you didn't pull out any stitches," Steve says. "What's this awful noise about?"

"I'm thinking I need a n-n-new theme song," Bucky says. "You d-don't like it?"

 _Half the city sound asleep and safe inside their beds / get lost inside my thoughts and nearly tear his face to shreds_ , shrieks the singer.

" _No_ ," Steve says. "I don't like it _at all_."

"Y-you're the one who wanted me to b-b-branch out from gangsta rap," Bucky says.

"I meant into something _nice_ ," Steve says.

"Hey," Bucky says. "You ain't sore? About last night?"

Steve pauses for a second. "No," he says eventually. "It's fine. I'm fine."

"Ok," Bucky says. "I was going to put the c-c-coffee on, so it would be ready for you, but then I thought that I w-wouldn't be able to keep my hands offa you once I saw you, and I d-d-didn't want the coffee to get cold." 

“Oh,” Steve says. “Well. I guess that breakfast can wait.”

Later they curl up in bed together, the sheets full of poppy seeds and two empty coffee cups on the bedside table. Steve's contemplating a mid-morning nap when Buck speaks. "You ever b-been to Vietnam, sweetheart?"

"No," Steve says and braces himself to hear something horrible. Buck seems to struggle with knowing how his memories will affect other people: he tells stories about eating ice cream with Steve when they were kids, picking mushrooms with one of his Soviet handlers out behind his dacha and being brutally raped by his first Hydra handler as if they're all pretty much the same thing.

"I remember," Buck says. "They were transp-p-porting me. In the back of a truck. Usually the trucks were closed. But. This one. This one way open. They t-t-told me. No looking around. Eyes to the front. But. I was so. _Bored_. So I l-l-looked. It was –" He stops for a second. "It was so. _Green_. And the light. All gold. Flat green, and the water shining. Black rocks coming up. Like fists. There was. A b-b- _buffalo_. And a white bird on its back. And I thought. Oh. This is. _Beautiful_."

He tucks his head under Steve's chin. "My handler. He s-saw me looking. He broke my nose. But. I thought _I'm glad_. Now I know what _beautiful_ is. Before I didn't know, and now I do." He's wriggling a little, trying to get even closer, and Steve obliges him by draping one leg over Bucky's thighs and squeezing him gently against his chest. Buck gives a little sigh. "They wiped me, after. I forgot. I forgot about _beautiful_. But now I remember again."

"I'm glad," Steve says, into the soft warmth of the top of Bucky's head. "I'm glad."

 

*****

Huang Fumei has been watching her employee.

She always watches her employees, because even though she works in the Bronx and hires junkies under the table, she is not stupid. She knows that the boss can't just sit around and do no work and expect everything do be done by singing mice like in a nice American movie. But this time, with this junkie, she isn't keeping an eye on him because she is afraid he will stack the cans in the wrong places. He is a reliable employee, even if he is a junkie. She is keeping an eye on him because she thinks he might fall over and die in the dollar store.

That would be _very_ bad for business.

One morning John comes in on time, but he keeps disappearing out the back door. Lately he has been doing that a lot, and when he comes back he looks sleepy and strange around the eyes and doesn't smell like cigarettes. Whenever she gets close to him he drops his face down like there's a really good story written on the floor.

She corners him next to the seafood flavored instant noodles and looks him up and down. 

He looks like a dead rat. 

“You look like a dead rat,” she says. “What's wrong with you? Do you have the flu or is it junkie problems?” He is as skinny as ever, but his face is all gray too, like a dead person's face.

He says, “I'm just t-t-tired.”

It's junkie problems.

She says, “You need to get off the dope, or you're going to die in the dollar store, and my whole business will be ruined.”

He says, “If I f-feel like I'm about to die I promise I'll try and m-m-make it out of the store first.”

She says, “You should get off the dope. Then you won't die, and maybe you could save up enough money to get a haircut.”

He says “I'm growing my hair out. I want it l-long enough so I can braid it.”

This junkie is a real smartass.

“Giving you advice is like playing the piano for a cow,” she says. “Go fix the Thanksgiving display, it looks like a junkie put it together.” Then she says, “Hah!” and goes into her office. 

Huang Fumei's office is just a corner of the back room, but with the junkie busy fixing the crepe-paper turkeys it is private enough to make a phone call.

“Hello, Auntie Huang,” Captain America says.

“Your boyfriend is shooting up behind the dollar store,” Huang Fumei says.

Captain America says, “He's not my boyfriend.”

Huang Fumei says, “Your husband is shooting up behind the dollar store.”

Captain America just sighs. 

Hah! Huang Fumei has beaten Captain America.

He says, “He's shooting up behind the store? Are you sure?”

She says, “He goes out there looking shaky, and comes back looking stupid. Either he is shooting up or he is hitting himself in the head with a brick.” Then she says, “You need to get your husband off the dope, or he will die in the dollar store.”

Captain America says “I don't think that I can.”

He sounds like he's about to cry. That is no good. Captain America can't save the world from aliens if he's too busy crying over this long-haired junkie like Huang Fumei's daughter used to cry over that dead long-haired junkie in all of her music posters. Crying is very bad for concentration, and also the aliens would laugh at him.

“You should get a divorce,” she says, and hangs up.

She goes to find John. “You,” she says. “You are a bad man.”

He blinks his big blue _laowai_ eyes at her. “W-what did I d-d-do?”

“You made Captain America cry,” she says.

“ _What_?” His whole body changes then. He goes hard and mean. A buzzing sound comes from his fake arm. “What happened,” he says. “Where. Is he.”

“He isn't crying in the dollar store,” she says. “He is crying on the _inside_ , because you are a junkie and you are going to die, and he will be distracted and let aliens destroy New York. You need to quit the junk or get a divorce before you ruin America.”

“Yeah,” John says. “You're right. That would. That would be better. For him.”

Now _he_ looks like he's going to cry. 

“If you are going to cry,” she says, “You can go into the back room. If you're going to ruin America at least you don't have to ruin my business first.”

 

*****

 

It's Sunday morning and Steve fixes his tie, double-checking it in the mirror to make sure it's not crooked. He knows that most people don't bother with this anymore, but he figures that if he can put on a tux for some gala Tony's throwing, he can put on a tie for God. At first it felt a little funny, showing up in a suit when everyone else was wearing dungarees, but after a while he started noticing some of the other guys showing up with their ties on too. Now some of the ladies have started wearing hats, and Father Gary's been saying that he's got the best-dressed congregation in Queens.

It's also turning into one of the biggest congregations in Queens, with more young people showing up for Sunday mass than at most any other Catholic church in the city, but Steve doesn't want to think too much about that. People should be showing up for God, not for Steve.

"Hey, sweetheart," Buck says. "Where are you headed all d-dolled up?"

He's sitting up in bed, his hair all rumpled, his scars and his metal arm and his prominent ribs in full view. Steve smiles at him. It's a treat, getting to see him in the morning. Usually Buck's out the window before dawn so he can get his fix. He came in late last night, though, so maybe he still has a little time before things start getting bad.

Things have been getting worse, lately. Buck's been slipping off more and more often to shoot up. It used to be that there was a happy medium between him needing his fix and the slowed-down, slurry version of him just after he got it, a span of relative comfort. Now he just seems to swing back and forth between needing it and doped-up and then needing it again. He's started falling asleep in the middle of conversations sometimes, which had never happened before, and Huang Ayi says that he's been shooting up behind the store to get through his shifts. Right now Steve's desperately grateful for what looks like a moment of reprieve.

"Afternoon, good lookin'. Glad to see you've decided to join the living."

Buck glances at the clock on the bedside table, then flops backwards with a groan. "It's s-s-seven in the goddamn AM."

"I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure that's when regular people wake up," Steve says. "To go to work. You know, at a job?"

"I ain't the unemployed one in this relationship, d-d-dollface. Heading off to haul crates every day, busting my ass so you can sit around on yours eating b-bon-bons and reading Ladies Home Journal."

Steve sniggers. Buck winks, then says, "So where are you t-taking that cute unemployed ass, anyhow?" He tics a little.

"Mass, Buck," Steve says. "It's Sunday. I woulda thought a working man such as yourself would know what day of the week it is."

"Oh, I know what day of the week it is, I just can't think about church without b-bleeding out the ears and screaming in Greek," Buck says and tics again, harder; the head one and a new one from this week where he shrugs his shoulders really fast. He hasn't been grunting so much for the past few days, which is a relief: Steve hates that one. Bucky says, "That was a joke, don't get all worked up."

"Well thank the Lord for that, I was about to call up Father Gary for an exorcism," Steve says and grabs his wallet off of the bedside table. "You can come with me, if you want."

"What, are you trying to get me to b-burst into flames?" Then, with a hint of warning in his voice, "You ain't getting me into the fold, Rogers. Don't bother."

Steve pauses halfway through getting his wallet into his pocket, stricken. 

Steve's faith has only ever become an issue between them once, before this. It was when Steve was twelve, right before his confirmation. He was excited about it, wanted to talk about it all the time, and something he said – neither of them could remember exactly what it was, afterwards – must have sounded to Buck like “You're a dirty rotten sinner for not believing like I do.” He refused to talk to Steve for almost a week, and Steve practically went nuts trying to figure out what was wrong, until Buck came climbing up Steve's fire escape and wailed, “You're my best friend and you think I'm gonna burn.” 

So they hugged and cried all over each other, even though they were old enough to know that a couple of guys shouldn't be acting like that. Steve promised that he thought Buck was the swellest guy in the world no matter what he believed in, that he didn't give a darn what Father Michael said, and that he'd never, ever say anything to make Bucky think otherwise. Buck promised Steve that he'd never up and leave Steve all alone like that again, even if they had him locked in a jail. In hindsight, Steve kind of wonders if that day – two skinny kids way too wrapped up in each other, promising to love each other more than they loved the laws of man or God – was the first step on a path that ended with them sharing a bed in 2015.

It stings, now, to know that Buck's forgotten it. That he could lose something that Steve carries so close to the bone.

"You know I wouldn't, Buck, you know I promised that I'd never push you about it, you _know_ I don't care that you're not –"

"Hey," Bucky says. " _Hey_. I didn't know. I don't remember us t-talking about this before. I should've figured you'd be a fucking s-s-saint about it. Catholic pun intended, b-by the way." His accent's drifting, getting a little British or something.

Steve sits down next to him on the bed. "You used to come with me sometimes. After my ma died and we moved in together. You said you liked listening to the choir, and the organ and all. I think really you just didn't want me to have to go alone. Now it's just –" He leans down to give Buck a quick kiss. "I hate leaving you. Even for a minute. I keep thinking I'll turn around and you'll be gone again."

Buck gives his hand a little squeeze. His tremor's acting up again. He'll be heading off to shoot up, soon. Steve's honestly surprised that he's held it together so long. It makes Steve sick to think about that too much, though, so he doesn't think about it. He can't think about it. Thinking about Bucky's habit means thinking about the impossibility of it escalating forever, about how it will have to eventually either level out or come to some kind of end, about how Bucky's never been great at staying away from anything that brings him pleasure.

Steve can't think about that.

"It's real sinful, huh? What I've got you d-doing with me." Bucky smiles a little. "Bet if I'd really died when I fell off that train you'd be seeing some girl by now, some tough broad like Carter who'd really give you what-for. Bet you'd be planning a real church wedding. Maybe thinking about naming some poor k-kid after me. Christ, sweetheart, I came in and just tore your life to shit –"

Steve feels like he's been punched.

"Buck," he says. "You don't –” He takes a breath. Squeezes Bucky's hand. "I would be dead, Buck. If you hadn't come back. I would've figured out a way to finish it."

Bucky rears back like he's been slapped. "W-w-w-w-w –" He stops and hisses, frustrated, then tries again. "What the fuck are you s- _saying_ , you'd _never_ – "

"I tried," Steve says. "Twice. Once on the Valkyrie. Once six months after I came back." He stares down at their joined hands, trying to find the words. "I couldn't sleep. For about a week, I think. By the end it was – hazy. I couldn't sleep, but I couldn't do anything else, either. I tried to pray, but I couldn't even do that. I just – stayed in bed, mostly. It was –" He stops. "I went to five different drug stores."

" _Stevie_ ," Bucky says, his voice gone high and raspy. Steve squeezes his hand.

"I bought a bottle of sleeping pills at each store. Then I went home and swallowed them all." He grabs Bucky's metal hand so he can hold that too, to remind himself that it's 2015 and Bucky's coming back isn't just a dream. "I woke up the next morning like nothing had happened. And I've been telling myself that I knew that I would be fine, that I was just so desperate to sleep that I did something dumb. But that wasn't it. I know what I was doing, and that wasn't it." He smiles a little. "Having you here with me – it feels like what getting the serum felt like. Like the beginning of the Wizard of Oz. There's all these _colors_ , Buck. I hadn't even realized they were missing, until they were there."

He's tearing up a little, he realizes. That's strange. He hasn't cried since Bucky died.

Buck pulls him in close. "Let's make a deal, huh, champ?"

Steve sniffs into his shoulder, then swallows hard. Pulls himself together. "What kinda deal?"

"If you get killed," Buck says, and his voice cracks. "Fuck. _Jesus_ , sweetheart. If you get killed by some evildoing shithead, or get hit by a truck or something, I promise I'll do my fucking best to keep going for you. I'll – I'll suit up, if that's what you want. I'll watch out for the kids. I'll t-t-teach piano to senior citizens or some shit, who fuckin' knows, you can write up some instructions for me. But if you k-kill yourself, sweetheart, if you harm one hair on your perfect fucking head, I'm eating a Glock before the funeral, honey, and they can bury us in one coffin to save on lumber. And you can promise to do the same for me. If I die you gotta p-p-promise you'll go on for me, sweetheart, but if I'm the one who pulls the trigger you can follow right after. That way we've got ourselves a suicide Mexican standoff, and no matter how bad shit gets we'll have to stick it out, and maybe one day we can be a coupla pissed-off old confirmed queers together, shouting at our neighbors on the spaceship about how things used to be when we were kids five hundred years ago."

And there's a fear Steve that has never voiced to anyone: a fear that he might be immortal, ageless, like some kind of vampire. It had been horrifying, before, when he was alone. Now it seems like a kind of restitution. Time to make up for all of the time that they've lost.

Steve laughs, kind of, a choked little gasp into Bucky's shoulder. He says "Yeah. Yeah, ok. Ok." He pulls back. "I've gotta – I'm gonna be late. I'm an usher, I've gotta get there early."

Bucky's shoulders relax slightly, as if Steve's promise has lifted a burden from his back. "Of course you are, sweetheart. Of fuckin' course you are." He puts his metal hand to Steve's cheek. "Have a nice time with God, huh? Put in a good word for me."

Steve kisses him again. "I don't want to go."

Buck flaps a dismissive hand at him. "Go on, honey. I gotta go anyway. You know you're on borrowed time right now." The tremor is creeping up his arm into the rest of his body: even his head is starting to shake. So Steve kisses him again, one last time, and then leaves.

When he gets back from church the apartment is quiet, which is normal; Buck probably won't drop back in again until late tonight, if he comes back at all today. Steve wanders into the bedroom, tugging at his tie with one hand, then stops dead.

There's a note on the bed.

A sound comes out of him: a high, panicked whine that he doesn't think has ever come out of him before, and he thinks no no no _nononononononono_ , and he reaches for it with hands that are shaking almost too badly to grasp it. The handwriting is a horror in itself, the blocky capitals shaking worse and worse until they shake into nonsense scribbles, and the words suddenly switch into a nearly incomprehensible back-slanted scrawl that Steve realizes must be Buck writing with his metal hand.

_Steve,_

_This isn't a suicide note. Don't get hysterical on me. I can see you getting hysterical, sweetheart: cut that shit out._

_I'm going to be away for a while. We made a promise today, and I have some business that needs taking care of if I want to be sure I can keep it. I don't know how long it will take. I don't know if I'll come back._

_No hysterics, sweetheart. This is us. This is what we do. We go places that people don't come back from, and we come back again because we're too fucking dogshit stupid to know better._

_You made a promise today, champ, and you're going to keep it for me. If I don't come back you're watching the goddamn kids for me. You're making sure Huang Ayi doesn't hire any more junkies who'll shoot up behind the shop. You're finding yourself a nice girl to marry._

_I'm not making any promises, because I don't like thinking there's a chance I might break them. But I want to come back. I want it worse than maybe I've ever wanted anything. I want to get older and meaner with you, sweetheart. I want to watch you go grey. I want to be with you on the day you don't have the strength in your arms to lift your shield anymore. Because when your body goes it will still be mine, sweetheart, down to the breath you can't catch again, down to the back that's all crooked-up again, down to every precious part of you that I've always, always loved, in your every era, in your every second, in every fucking century I've ever followed you through. Into the jaws of death._

_I love you so bad sometimes I think it might kill me. I think it's the way I want to go._

_To the end of the motherfucking line, sweetheart,_

_John Sasha James Buchanan always yours,_

_Buck_

Steve goes down on his knees. He doesn't pray. He cries. He sobs so it feels like he can't breathe, like his body is a train that he's barely clinging onto. He cries and he chokes out curses.

" _Fuck you_ ," he says. " _Fuck you fuck you fuck you_ ," and he doesn't know who he's screaming at, where he's flinging his curses: at Bucky, at himself, or right into the smirking teeth of God.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference reference, for the interested:
> 
> The song Bucky listens to in the cab: https://youtu.be/RAzzv6Ks9nc
> 
> The first piece he plays on the piano, as performed by the presumably superhuman and cybernetically enhanced Evgeny Kissin: https://youtu.be/KmdGbUzv4SM
> 
> The second song he plays on the piano: https://youtu.be/jSVw0iye9Gw
> 
> The horrible shrieking that wakes up Steve: https://youtu.be/xYwcSIBdOik
> 
> The French no-dad-club dance party song: https://youtu.be/oiKj0Z_Xnjc


	7. Way Down in the Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two Devils appear. Text messages are sent. Sam cuddles up. Lily takes charge. Old friends reunite. Some people are star-struck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MY DARLING DONUT HOLES.
> 
>  
> 
> 1\. The incredibly talented Laureljupiter made pictures of Bucky and the goddamn kids! Check them out  
> [here](http://laureljupiter.tumblr.com/post/134162936206/totally-obsessed-with-spitandvinegars-aint-no) and [here](http://laureljupiter.tumblr.com/post/134180968831/work-sketch-more-aint-no-grave-having-a-lot-of). Go love on her! She's also making amazing art for my proposed comic project, because I'm the most fortunate little newsie in all of Brooklyn right now.
> 
> 2\. PODFIC IS GO. Starkpanda is using her mellifluous voice to great effect right  
> [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5315537/chapters/12272747).
> 
> 3\. No special warnings for this chapter, other than GUEST STAR-ITIS. Also, if you haven't read The Needle and the Killing Done, it still isn't necessary, but it might make this chapter a little better.
> 
> 4\. As always, thanks to my master-beta (teehee) [Vaysh](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaysh/pseuds/Vaysh).

**Me** Buck, I saw your note. Please call me. I know that you don't trust me not to interfere with whatever you're planning, but we can work something out, I promise. Just give me a chance, please.

 **Me** At least promise that you'll check in.

 **Me** Buck, don't do this to me.

 **Me** Bucky, it's been twelve hours. Please, please don't do this to me. Please call me.

 **Me** I'm begging you 

**Me** buck please just call, just call me, I need to hear your voice

 **Me** buck god I can't do this again, I can't, i'm going fucking crazy

 **Me** please come home 

**Me** please bucky

 **Me** don't leave me alone 

**Me** I read your letter and I know you understand Buck I know you understand how I feel because you feel the same way and so you know that this is killing me you have to know you have to know what you're doing right now and I don't understand why you would do this 

**Me** fuck you

 **Me** don't bother coming back

 **Me** I'm sorry.

 **Me** I didn't mean that. 

**Me** I can't sleep.

 **Me** Are you awake now too?

 **Me** I always sleep worse when you're not here.

 **Me** I used to smoke Luckies alone in my apartment so that I could pretend that you were there with me.

 **Me** Did you make that deal with me because you were planning on doing this the whole time and you thought I might shoot myself in the head when I found out that you'd left me again?

 **Me** Well, I guess you got me there, Buck.

 **Me** Hey, the next time you write me a love letter, can you stick around for long enough to let me say it back?

 **Me** I love you.

 **Me** I've loved you my whole life.

 **Me** I've told you that so many times in my head.

 **Me** I guess this time is no different.

 

*****

 

It's 4:45 on Friday afternoon, and Amy can't get the stupid mail merge to work, and Keith keeps singing along to his satellite radio. 

“Shot through the heart, and it's too late! You give love a bad name!” 

Amy peeks over the top of her cube to make pleading eye contact with Charlene, who's technically Keith's supervisor. Charlene rolls her eyes and calls out, “Save it for team karaoke, Keith.”

“I would if we actually ever _did_ team karaoke,” Keith says. “I've got music in my heart, Charlene, and nowhere to share it.”

“Yeah, and we're all really happy about that,” Charlene says. “I'm going to tell Toby to kill the karaoke plan: we can just do minigolf again this year.”

“You're crushing my _spirit_ , Charlene,” Keith says.

“Test, test, one two one two, test fuckin' test, shitheads,” says a voice over the PA system. 

Keith says, “What the hell?”

There's a buzz all through the room, and people start standing up and looking around, checking to see who looks like they're in on the joke. Amy knows, because she's looking around too. This is the most interesting thing that's happened all day. 

The voice speaks again. It's a man's voice, low and scratchy, with a kind of funny sounding accent. “I'm guessing that most of you haven't figured out who I am yet,” the voice says. “So I'd like to sing you a little song, by way of introducing myself.”

“Oh, _shit_ ,” someone in the room says. It sounds like that guy Phil from the IT department. 

“ _Who's that writing_?” the voice sings. “ _John the Revelator_.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Keith says, and suddenly he's holding a gun. Amy, stupidly, looks toward Charlene, because she's the supervisor, and she should be telling him to put it away: there's no guns allowed in the office. But now Charlene is holding a gun too, _everyone in the room_ is holding a gun, and people are shouting and running and shoving stuff in front of the doorways with that scratchy voice still singing over the chaos.

“ _Charlene_ ,” Amy says. “What's going on, I don't understand, why do you all have _guns_ , what's – ”

“Shut the fuck up,” Charlene says. She's busy on her computer. “Fuck, he's in the security system, fuck, fuck – ”

“Ain't no running, fuckstains,” the voice says. “Ain't no point to it. Though you dig into hell thence shall my hand take you; though you climb up to heaven thence will I _bring you down_. And though you hide yourselves in the top of Carmel, I will search and _take you out_ thence, despite the fact that I've had my fuckin' fill of the Metro North in recent fuckin' weeks. See you soon, shitbirds,” the voice says. Then the power goes out, and the basement office is completely dark. 

People are screaming, running around, bashing into each other and slamming into things in the dark. Amy hides under her desk. Then the whole world blows up.

There's an explosion, and then two more, so loud that Amy can barely hear the gunfire when it starts. It's almost like being at a dance with a strobe light, only the sound of the guns is louder than anything she's ever heard before, and the screaming, _God, the screaming_ – 

Then it's quiet. It's quiet and it stinks. It stinks like – like shit. It smells like human shit, and like –

It's quiet. It's so quiet. There should be twenty people in the office, and now it's so, so quiet, except for the footsteps, the footsteps that sound like they're walking through something wet, like the floor is covered in – 

The footsteps are coming closer, they're coming closer and the smell is _blood_ , the sound is _blood_ , she's in the office and it's completely dark and completely silent because everyone's dead, _and the floor is covered in their blood_ – 

This isn't real. This isn't happening. This isn't real. This isn't happening. This isn't real – 

“Hey there, sweetheart.”

There's a click. A lighter. 

The monster's eyes gleam in the dark.

She pees her pants.

“Christ,” the monster says. “How fuckin' old are they recruiting these days? What are you, sixteen?”

“Seventeen,” Amy says. “Seventeen, I'm the intern, I'm the intern, this is my second week – ”

“Jesus,” the monster says. “Say, if I said 'cut off one head' to you, how would you finish that sentence?”

Amy says, “ _I don't want to die_ ,” and she's crying harder than she's ever cried in her life, and she's going to die, _she doesn't want to die, she's so scared, she's so scared_ , and the monster touches her and she _screams_ – 

“Fuck,” the monster says. “ _Fuck_. Hey. Look at me, honey. I'm a person, ok? I'm – Jesus. Look. See? It's a mask. It comes off. Just look at me, sweetheart.”

She looks. He looks back at her. He looks thin, and tired. Dark circles under his eyes. Handsome. “You were working for Hydra,” he says. “Your, uh, coworkers. They were all Hydra. I didn't know you were in here, sweetheart. I thought there weren't any civvies in this whole base. _Fuck_. I d-d-didn't know you were _in_ here.”

This isn't real. This isn't happening. 

“I'm so sorry. Jesus _fuck_. I got – I got a daughter your age,” he says. “Honey, listen. I know you're s-s-scared as shit, but I swear to God I ain't gonna hurt you.”

She feels far away from herself. Cool and separate. She says, “You killed them all. There were twenty people. They had guns. You killed them all.” 

“Yeah,” he says. “I d-d-d-did.”

“You have a stutter,” she says. “Why?” It doesn't make sense. Monsters don't stutter.

“Uh,” he says. “B-b-brain damage. Fuckin' Hydra.” Then he says, “Close your eyes, sweetheart.”

She closes her eyes. She waits to die.

She feels herself being lifted. He presses her face gently into his shoulder. “Keep 'em closed for me, sweetheart,” he says. “We're almost out. Almost there. Don't open your eyes, honey. I just c-c-called 911. They'll be here for you soon. They're gonna take real good care of you, sweetheart. They'll keep me away, I promise. They'll k-k-keep you safe. You'll never see me again. Keep your eyes closed. Keep 'em closed for me.”

When she opens her eyes again there are blue and red lights. Fireworks. The fourth of July.

Someone is wrapping a blanket around her shoulders. “He was here,” she says.

The woman's face is kind. She says, “Who was here?”

“The devil,” Amy says. “He carried me.”

 

*****

 

 **Me** Hey, Buck.

 **Me** Thank you for keeping your phone charged.

 **Me** At least I can call and know that you're probably still alive, even if you don't pick up.

 **Me** I'm not doing so great, Buck.

 **Me** I guess I let myself get used to having you around.

 **Me** You know I would've been your punk, if you'd asked for it?

 **Me** I never saw two guys who both acted like regular guys and made time together, not back home. They got them now, though. I guess we'd be almost normal, now.

 **Me** I figured since everyone already thought it about me anyhow what difference would it make, really? I thought that if you wanted it I could be your girl for you.

 **Me** I would've done it for you, Buck. I would've been the fairy. I would've worn lipstick for you. I would've been your girl if that's how you wanted me. Just wanted you to be my guy, Buck, didn't care about nothing else. And I knew I wouldn't be any good at it naturally, with you always saying I was five dollars' worth of mean in a nickel sack, but I always thought I could be real sweet for you if you'd just give me a chance. I would've been a real good little wife for you if you'd have just been my husband. 

**Me** All I ever wanted, Buck. Just to be what you wanted.

 

*****

 

Sam's in the middle of a date when Iron Man starts blowing his phone up.

 **Tony Stark** emergency

 **Tony Stark** avengers assemble

 **Tony Stark** cap is down, I repeat, cap is down

 **Me** what?????

 **Me** is Steve ok??? What's going on

 **Tony Stark** Barnes dumped him

 **Tony Stark** or something like that, I haven't been keeping up with days of our supersoldiers

 **Tony Stark** anyway tall dark and stabby is gone

 **Tony Stark** missing, vanished, flown the coop etc

 **Tony Stark** and cap is catatonic

 **Tony Stark** Romanov seems mildly concerned so I can only assume this is some kind of suicide watch situation and I don't do well with that kind of thing, I'm really more of an ideas man than a feelings man, so I'd like to suggest that you head over to Ridgewood if you don't want captain America's untimely death on your conscience

"You asshole," Sam says to his phone.

Claire raises her eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

"No, wow, not you! Just, this guy I work with, he's texting me to tell me that he thinks our friend might be suicidal right now, and somehow he manages to make it both all about him _and_ all my problem." He sighs. "I'm so sorry, but I think I might have to cut things short tonight." He gives the waiter a meaningful look.

Claire says, "Ok."

Sam blinks. "Really?"

She looks at him like he's the slowest kindergartner in the whole adorable class. "Sam, I've had guys walk out on dates because they got a booty call. Leaving early because you need to go check up on your potentially suicidal friend is just evidence that you're not an asshole." She takes a sip of her 15 dollar cocktail, because Sam Wilson knows how to treat a lady. "Can I ask if it's the same friend you were talking about before? The traumatized one?"

"Yep, that's him," Sam says.

"Sounds like he's pretty high-maintenance."

"Oh, he isn't. Which is why I'm rushing over there now instead of letting it wait until tomorrow. If it looks bad, then it's probably a hell of a lot worse."

His phone starts ringing then, and when he answers it's Stark. "Are you there yet?"

"Dude, you are getting on my last nerve," Sam says. "If you're worried about Steve why don't you go over there yourself? I'm in the East Village right now, it'll take me a minute on the L, and I know for a _fact_ you can get there faster."

"I'm on the Tuesday shift," Stark says. “I talked it over with Romanov and we agreed that it's best if I come in only after his resistance has been so worn down by the rest of you that he won't have the strength to throw me out. That's when I show up with a few bottles of whiskey and a semi-sympathetic ear, and even if he can't stand the sight of me his irritation at my presence will at least remind him of what it feels like to be alive."

"Wow," Sam says. "That's – almost nice of you, in an incredibly dysfunctional way. Look at you, Tony! One day you'll be a real boy after all."

"Let's not get carried away, tweety. I'm hanging up before you start asking about my relationship with my mother. Call me if Cap shoots himself," Stark says and hangs up.

"That guy is _so weird_ ," Sam says.

"Not as weird as you being on a first name basis with Tony Stark," Claire says.

"He's actually surprisingly not that much of a snob about – wait," Sam says. "You _know_? How long have you known?"

"Oh my sweet summer child," Claire says. "I googled you the first day we met. I just thought your evasions about your work friends were cute. Honestly, at first I was pissed about it, because I already have more than enough of superheroes in my life and I promised myself I wasn't going to get involved. But you actually really just seem like you're a normal guy with an incredibly weird skill set. And I like a guy who will open a door for me."

"Yeah, well, you hang out with Cap enough and you pick up a few things," Sam says. "Wait, what other superheroes do you have in your life?"

"It's a long and dramatic white-boy story," Claire says.

"Yeah, that's pretty much industry standard," Sam says and tries to catch the waiter's eye again. 

 

When Sam gets to Steve's apartment he knocks first, out of politeness, though he's fully expecting to have to use his key to get in. But the door opens, and Steve's there, that huge body filling the whole doorway. He's dressed, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, but Sam can tell that some bad shit is going down the instant he gets a good look at Steve's face. Normally the guy is so expressive it's funny – he's about the world's worst poker player – but now his face is completely blank, and for the first time since Sam's met him he has dark circles under his eyes. He says, “Is it your shift on guard duty now?”

“Guess so,” Sam says, and Steve takes a step back to let him in. 

Natasha unfurls herself from the couch and stands on tiptoe to give Steve a kiss on the cheek. It lands more at the bottom of his jaw, because the man's a foot taller than her and crankily refusing to bend over and help a girl out. “I'll be back tomorrow,” she says and hauls Sam into the hallway before Steve has time to object.

“I came by at five in the afternoon today and found him like this,” she says once the door's closed, “Lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. I checked in with Sasha's foster kids and they said that he cooked dinner for them but wandered off before they ate. I'm pretty sure he hasn't eaten anything since before church yesterday morning.”

“Shit,” Sam says. “I know he's the Winter Soldier and all, but I'm going to have _words_ with Barnes the next time I see that guy.”

Her mouth twists a little. “I'm already planning on it. Sasha and I have a few things that we need to discuss.” She looks away. “I have to go downstairs now. I told the kids that if they promised not to go charging off to the Bronx to look for their _dad_ I would show them how to use a garrote.” She sounds sarcastic when she says that, like she isn't falling for whatever angle Sasha's working with the whole “loving foster dad” thing. Sam figures that's because she hasn't seen the guy with his kids yet. He always looks at them like he's part stupid in love, part completely puzzled, and part scared out of his damn mind, which was pretty much exactly how Sam's mom looked at him at least once per day when he was between the ages of 13 and 21.

Sam goes back into Steve's place. Steve's sitting on the couch, kind of hunched into himself. Sam sits right next to him, gets all up in his personal space, because if there is one thing that Sam knows for sure about Captain America it's that the man loves hugs and will never, ever ask for one. Sure enough, Steve leans into him a little. Sam says, “Sounds like you've been having a shitty day.”

Steve says, “Yeah.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Want to watch a movie?”

“Ok.” 

“Great. Have you seen My Neighbor Totoro yet? It's my niece's favorite.”

“Your niece is _five_.”

“Yeah, and she has fantastic taste, just like her uncle Sam. Come on, it's 2D animated, you'll love it.” Steve's a real sucker for nice hand-drawn animation (when Sam wants to really freak himself out he'll let himself sit with the fact that Steve had his little mind blown by Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs when it _came out in theaters_ ). A while back Sam showed him Brendan and the Secret of Kells and had the unique pleasure of watching Captain America sitting on his living room rug two feet away from the screen, actually, honest-to-god _starry-eyed_ over a damn kid's movie. Sam Wilson is secure enough in his masculinity to acknowledge incredibly adorable things when he sees them, and that was just about the most precious thing he's ever seen that didn't involve a piglet in galoshes. 

That was also when Steve casually said, “It was nice, hearing the Gaelic. Did I tell you that I couldn't really speak English until I went to school? Ma just didn't think to speak it to me. She got a talking-to from my teacher about it, and after that it was nothing but English at home. I forgot my Gaelic pretty quick after that,” he added, all wistful, which is why dude's getting the Irish Gaelic Rosetta Stone for Christmas. 

Now Steve just sort of grunts, which Sam decides to interpret as a noise of consent. He finds the movie on Netflix. Steve seems set on being all grim and cranky about it, but then there's some pretty magical forest sequences and he goes, “ _Oh_ ,” and leans forward a little to direct the full-wattage Steve Rogers attention at the screen. Sam's been on the receiving end of that attention a few times while they were having heart-to-hearts. It's a little like a combination of stepping into a hot tub, being strip-scanned by the TSA, and having the personification of the American Way gaze deeply into your eyes and express heartrendingly sincere interest in all of your deepest fears, hopes and dreams. Barnes needs to seriously get his act together, because Sam's pretty sure that wasting grade-A boyfriend skills like that on an unappreciative audience should be counted as some kind of crime. 

The movie seems to settle Steve down a little, and he slumps more and more into Sam's side as he watches, taking comfort all sneaky-like. Which is good, but also horrible, because Steve is conservatively about six-four and over two hundred pounds, and Sam is a normal-sized human.

The movie winds up. Steve looks bereft. Sam says, “So do you want to talk about what's going on?”

“No,” Steve says. “What did you do today?”

Sam tells Steve about his date. Steve, whose quick-on-the-uptake-ness Sam _still_ somehow manages to underestimate, looks, if possible, even more miserable than he was before. “Did you walk out on your date so you could come babysit me?”

“I told her that I had to leave early because a friend's going through a rough patch,” Sam says. “She basically told me that I'd earned ten good-guy points. I should be thanking you.”

Steve snorts, then says, “What's she like?”

So Sam tells him, and Steve makes appreciative noises at all of the right moments, and for a little bit everything's very normal. Then Steve's eyes kind of glaze over in the way that they do when he's injured on a mission and doesn't want to admit that he's in pain, and Sam gently suggests that he might try getting some sleep. Steve stiffens up, looks freaked out just by the suggestion. “I can't.” 

“Because you're worried about Sasha?”

“I guess.” He manages a little smile. “I, uh. Thanks. For calling him that. I think it makes him feel good. I mean, he says he likes it when I call him Buck. But whenever you call him Sasha he kinda smiles a little, you know?” He looks away, and his voice cracks. “I'm sorry, I just – ” He swallows. “Buck's been sleeping with me most nights. Just, uh, sleeping. But the bed, it – ” 

“It feels weird and empty and you can't sleep without him there,” Sam says, and Steve goes all wide-eyed, like _how did you know_? Sam smiles at him. “Man, I have _been_ through a breakup, I know how it goes. I mean, not that this is a _breakup_. Just, you know, you get used to having someone there with you.” 

Steve nods hard. “Yeah. We, um.” His eyes go a little distant. “We bunked together a lot. During the war. Sometimes it was our whole unit, when we were out in the field somewhere and the temperature really dropped. The guys, uh, they used to fight over who got to be next to me. Because I run hot.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “I'd just gotten used to it again, before I found Buck. Sleeping alone.”

Sam says, “You know, if there's one thing that I am _damn_ good at, it's sleeping. Grade-A since childhood. Ask my mom, she'll confirm.”

Steve looks like he just ate about twelve lemons. “I can't ask you to do that, Sam.”

“Yeah, well, you don't have to ask me. I, Sam Wilson, am asking _you_ if I can sleep in your bed with you tonight.”

They stare each other down for a bit. That's cool; Sam can wait. 

Steve sort of crumples. “Ok,” he says. “Ok.”

They fall asleep on opposite sides of Steve's giant bed.

If Sam wakes up a few hours later with his entire body enveloped by the world's biggest and most patriotic octopus, then, well. He's not going to be the one to bring it up. And he certainly isn't about to bring up the fact that the octopus is shaking and crying in his sleep, or that when Sam wakes that poor octopus up he sort of curls in on himself and tries to cry without making any noise or moving or breathing or existing in multiple dimensions, because he's Steve and he thinks that having feelings other than “inspirational” or “punching” is some kind of imposition on other people. So Sam flops an arm over him and yawns so hard his jaw cracks, and says, “Wanna talk about it?”

“No,” Steve says, all sniffly and pitiful. 

“Ok,” Sam says, and rubs his back with one hand until they both fall back asleep.

The next morning Steve is shuffling gloomily around in his sweats and a t-shirt when he stops suddenly and stares hard at the back of his bedroom door. “He switched them.”

Sam hands him a cup of coffee. “Who switched what now?”

Steve points to the hoodie hanging from the hook on the back of the door. “My Army sweatshirt was hanging there. He switched it out with one of his.”

Having Bucky's hoodie to wear seems to cheer Steve up a little bit, even though it's too small for him and stinks like the bottom of an ashtray. He wanders into the living room and switches the TV on, and Sam goes to see if Steve has anything in the fridge that he can turn into breakfast and then force down Steve's stubborn supersoldier throat, because Steve is apparently not very capable of self-care right now.

Then Sam hears a loud crash, and Steve's voice saying, “ _Fuck_!”

Sam races into the living room. Steve's coffee cup is on the floor, smashed to pieces on the hardwood, and there's coffee soaking into Steve's new rug. All of Steve's attention is focused on the TV, where a blond woman is breathlessly reporting on something that the feed along the bottom of the screen is calling the “Long Island City Massacre.” 

“This horrific crime occurred only hours before a series of explosions killed six people in Camden New Jersey, and followed a rash of execution-style shootings throughout the New York Metro area. Though officials have not yet confirmed that they are treating the incidents as linked, information from the Black Widow data leak seems to implicate all of the victims in Hydra activities, leading some to suggest that this may be the work of a rival terrorist organization – ”

“He took out over thirty Hydra agents,” Steve says. “By himself. In two days.”

“Jesus,” Sam says. He feels a little nauseous. 

Steve walks calmly to the nearest wall and puts his fist through it.

 

*****

 

It's five AM, and the wind is coming in cold off of the Hudson.

The creature opens up its backpack. It pulls out its works, the coke can, the lighter. It pulls out the two kilos of smack that it stole. It pulls out all of those things and it throws them into the river. 

Then he says, “Fuck fuck _fuck_ ,” and jumps in after them.

When he climbs out of the water, dripping and shaking, there is a man laughing at him. The man is older, his eyes folding into deep wrinkles when he smiles. He is wearing a ski cap and a warm coat. He is fishing in the river. He says, “Man, I've seen junkies get up to some wacky shit, but I haven't see anything _that_ wacky since nineteen seventy holy shit, _Sarge_?”

The creature stares.

“Holy _shit_ ,” the man says again. “ _Jesus_. You blew up DC, you crazy motherfucker! I saw that damn arm on tv and thought that all of those drugs we did back in the day were finally catching up to me. _Fuck_ , man, how the fuck do you still look like you did in '76? Don't tell me it was clean living!”

The creature feels its face do something strange. It says, “ _George_?”

George. Older now, but the same, still the same as when they squatted together, when they went to the diner, when they slept in an alley and sometimes shared a needle and always tried not to talk about Vietnam. When George was his best friend. When George was Bucky's only friend in the world, for three long months when he was free and almost remembered how to be a person.

George is grinning. “Holy shit! Come here and give me a hug, man!”

They hug.

He feels – 

He hides his face in George's coat.

George says, “Hey, Sarge, you're soaked and it's cold as hell out here. How about you come back to my apartment and we get you warmed up a little?”

Buck says, “Ok.”

They walk to George's apartment. George makes Buck take his shirt off and put on George's coat first. He doesn't stare at the arm, or the scars, or how his ribs stick out. On the way George makes a phone call. He says, “Hey, babe! You're not going to _believe_ who I just found. No. Nope. No, _seriously_ , babe, less believable than that. Can you put some coffee on, maybe heat up some soup or something? Thanks, Lees, you're an angel.”

He hangs up. He says, “You remember Lisa?”

Bucky blinks. “She b-b-braided my hair.”

George smiles. “We've been married for thirty-five years.”

Bucky says, “Wow.” He makes a smiling expression. He's not sure how sincere it looks, but his whole fuckin' body aches. Then he says, “My. M-my guy. The one I missed. I found him.”

George says, “Hey, that's great, Sarge! How's he doing?”

“He's g-g-good,” Bucky says. “He's good.” He jerks his head.

George says, “That doesn't look too good, man. You feeling ok?”

“Yes,” Bucky says. “It just. Happens. I got. B-b- _brain_ damage.” He scowls. “I'm not. _Stupid_. I just. It's hard. To t-t-talk.”

“I don't think you're stupid, Sarge,” George says. “I know you're not.” Then he says, “So that's why you're going cold turkey? For your guy? I mean, you're kicking, right? Or you've just got so damn much smack that you toss a few pounds into the river just for fun?”

“Yeah, that t-too,” Bucky says. “But. I, uh. I want to be ok. For him. And for these g-goddamn kids I'm taking care of.”

“And for yourself too, right?”

“What's th-th-that supposed to mean?”

“I'm just saying, man. I went cold turkey three times before it took. The first time for my sister, the second time for Lees. The last time because I was sick of my own bullshit.”

Buck says, “There's n-n-no one on earth as s-sick of his own bullshit as I am.”

They get to George's apartment. George ushers him inside, and a woman comes to greet them. Bucky doesn't recognize her face. She looks at him, polite, smiling. George says, “Sarge, show her your hand!”

Bucky assumes he doesn't mean the right one. He wiggles the fingers of his left hand at her. He says “Hi, Lisa. L-long time no see.”

She screams a little. He hopes that it's in a happy way. George is smiling, so he supposes that it is.

George says that he can take a shower. A shower is – 

Not optimal. 

He turns the water up as hot as it will go and steps in. Hose-down. Hygiene procedure. There's steam, but he can't stop shivering.

Unacceptable lack of control over bodily movement.

He pinches a spot on his inner thigh with his metal fingers hard enough to leave a black mark. He starts to do it again, to make the punishment stick, but then thinks _Steve might see it_. Steve likes to look at the body. He might look at the black punishment-mark on the body and say, “Oh, _Buck_ ,” in the thick sticky-sounding voice that means that the creature has upset him. 

The sticky-sounding voice is _highly_ negative.

Bucky gives his thigh a little pat, by way of apologizing, and steps back out of the shower. He dries himself. He dries carefully over his thigh where he's hurt, because he thinks that's how Steve would do it. Steve would be careful of the place where Bucky's injured, even if he's only hurt there because he did it to himself, because he's _fucking crazy_.

He puts on the dry clothes in his backpack. His new jeans. The Tupac t-shirt that Steve bought for him. Steve's Army sweatshirt. 

He puts his face into the sweatshirt, just for a second.

When he's finished dressing he goes back into the living room. George's apartment is – 

Nice. It's nice. There's a big, soft couch. There are colorful rugs on the floor. Art on the walls, big black and white photos of jazz musicians. A vase full of flowers. A record player with a pile of records. A big fat yellow cat.

The big fat yellow cat comes to wind around Bucky's ankles. It says, “Meow.” It pronounces it very distinctly, like maybe it speaks Cat as a second language and doesn't know how to use contractions. 

Bucky can relate.

He makes a nonthreatening expression at the cat. “Hello,” he says.

“That's Miles,” George says. “He likes you, Sarge!”

Bucky pets Miles very, very carefully with his meat hand. Miles says _meow_ again. 

The creature has not broken the cat. 

Why doesn't _Steve_ have art on his walls? Why doesn't Steve have a cat that says _meow_?

Steve's apartment isn't _nice_. It looks like a safehouse. It looks like no one lives in it at all. The only thing good about it is that Steve owns it, and it smells like Steve, and usually Steve is in it, which is very, very positive. But Steve presumably doesn't get anything out of _smelling himself_ – he's Captain America, not some kinda fuckin' pervert – so there's _nothing_ nice for Steve in his apartment. 

Unacceptable.

“Oh, Steve,” Lisa says. “You're _shivering_. Sit down, please. I'll pour you some coffee. Do you want the afghan?”

Cognition error.

What the hell's an _afghan_?

“My,” he says. “My n-name. It isn't. It isn't Steve.” He sits down on the couch. Lisa hands him a cup of coffee in a pink cup. 

The pink cup is positive. 

Lisa puts some kind of wooly blanket on him. Now he is warmer. He says, “Th-thank you.”

George is drinking coffee out of a mug. It's a nice mug. Purple and green. Positive. 

George is smiling a little over the top of the mug. He says, “Yeah, you just told me your name was Steve back in the day because it was the first name that came to mind, right? Steve's your guy.”

Buck frowns, then sneezes into his elbow. His nose is running. He says, “How. How did you know that.”

George is smiling even more, now, like he thinks he's real fuckin' clever. “You know what I did after I got off the drugs? Used my GI benefits and went to college. Know what I did after that?”

No. Bucky doesn't know, obviously. He glares harder. George smiles even bigger.

“Eleventh grade history teacher. For thirty years. _Thirty years_ , Sarge, staring at your ugly mug on page 326 and thinking I was losing my damn mind. Then Cap showed up again, and I thought, well, maybe. Maybe I'm not crazy after all.” He sits back in his chair. “So. Do I call you James?”

Bucky tics. “B-buck. You can call me Buck.”

Miles jumps onto the couch. He says, “Meow.” Then he sits his fat ass on Buck's lap and starts to make a sound like a Harley with engine trouble. 

He looks almost as smug as George.

Lisa goes to make everyone some toast. 

George doesn't get all weird about the J. B. Barnes thing, which is very positive. Buck thinks he might go right out the window if anyone tries to make him talk about that shit right now. Instead George talks a little about his life. Being a teacher. Getting married. He shows Bucky pictures of his daughters, his baby grandson. Buck makes admiring noises at the daughter pictures and soft noises at the baby pictures. George likes that.

Buck shows him a picture of Steve reading with Mikey and Lily on the couch. He says, “The k-kids. I found them. They were. Alone. So I j-just helped out a little. Made them go to s-s-school and everything. They're staying with Steve now. I don't think. I don't think he m-minds.”

George's eyes crinkle up at the corners. “No,” he says. “It doesn't look like he minds.”

Buck says, “I don't f-f-f-feel so good.”

He goes to the bathroom and shits his damn brains out.

He slinks back into the living room a while later. He would've gone out the bathroom window if his phone wasn't still on the coffee table. George gives him a sympathetic look. “Don't worry about it, man. Believe me, I've been there.”

Bucky doesn't want to talk. His whole body hurts. He's fucking _freezing_. He wants to lie on the couch under the wooly afghan thing. 

He does that. Miles sits on his stomach and says, “Meow.” He is heavy as _shit_. Who knew a cat could be so goddamn heavy?

Buck hates him.

George goes into the kitchen. He comes back with a plate of dry toast and a bottle of Gatorade. “Have some toast if it doesn't make you want to ralph. The Gatorade's important, though. Try and get that down. You're gonna be dehydrated as hell in a few hours.”

“Yeah, getting de-hydra-ated is k-kinda the goal,” Buck says.

Bucky is _hilarious._

George just looks confused.

Steve would think it was funny. He'll tell him later, if he doesn't die first. He feels like maybe he's going to die.

George says, “Just finish the Gatorade, Sarge.”

The creature hates him. It wants to snap his neck. It wants to rip the skin off of his face. It wants – 

Shit.

_Shit._

He stands up. Miles is offended. He says, “I g-gotta. Shit. I gotta go. It's not safe. M-me being here. You s-saw what I did in fuckin' DC. What I d-d- _do_ if I'm not th-thinking straight. I could. _Hurt_ you.” Like he could hurt Steve. Like he could hurt his _kids_.

“Ok,” George says. “That's fine. Don't freak out on me, man. But can I put my number into your phone first? And make you a little kick kit?”

“What.”

“Just some stuff to make it a little easier for you. Hold on, just – just sit there for five minutes. You won't kill me in five minutes, Sarge. Just kick it with Miles for a minute. Charge your phone. I'll get you set up. Don't take off, ok?”

“M-miles is angry at me.” Miles is sitting on the arm of the couch. He's glaring. Bucky glares right back.

George says, “He'll get over it.” Then he runs into the bathroom. Buck wants to apologize. He has made the bathroom highly, highly negative.

George makes Buck a bag of stuff. Immodium and dramamine. Some bananas. Aspirin. Gatorade. A warm fuzzy blanket. He says, “I'd feel a lot better if you'd just stay here, Sarge. We've got a spare room. You really shouldn't be alone for this, you know?”

Bucky gives him a hug. He maybe clings a little. He takes the kick kit and puts it in his backpack. He says, “Th-thanks.”

Then he goes out the window.

By the time he gets back to his squat he's starting to hurt pretty bad.

He's sweating, as hot now as he was freezing an hour ago. He takes off Steve's sweatshirt. He puts his face into it and then makes his whole body into a ball around it. He thinks _Stevie Stevie Stevie Stevie_. He thinks about being held.

He gets out his phone. He hasn't checked his messages. He didn't think he could handle it.

He checks his messages, and fuck, _fuck, Steve_ –

He can't fucking handle it.

Everything fucking hurts, his whole fucking body, his brain, fucking _all_ of him. And he's a piece of shit, he's a piece of fucking _garbage_ , and he wants Steve, he wants to fucking go _home_ , and he's fucking everything up but he feels crazy already and it's barely started and he remembers the black bruises his fingers left on Steve's throat. Because he's a monster, he's a fucking _monster_ no matter what Steve says, he isn't safe to be around on a normal fucking _Tuesday_ , let alone when he's hurting this bad. And Christ, the _kids_ , if they got close to him, Lily too damn brave for her own good, sweet trusting little Mikey with his bones like a bird, how those bones would break, how that little body would shatter –

He gags, then dry heaves for a bit. He's already taken some of the dramamine and immodium that George gave him. He doesn't know if it's helping. He's scared he's going to get the shits again, because he ain't got anywhere to go, and he had just about fucking enough of shitting himself while they were breaking him, and fucking _Christ_ , how can Steve even stand to touch him? And the pain's getting worse, and he can't fucking deal with it, and instead of lying here like a pig in his own shit he decides to get up and start running. 

 

*****

 

Steve is acting like a hot mess, and Lily is _sick_ of his bullshit.

So John ran out on them. So the fuck what? That's what junkies do. That's what _people_ do. They run out on you. Steve is like a million years old, he should've figured this shit out by now. He shouldn't be _acting_ like this.

Maybe if you didn't know Steve you'd think he was being normal. Like, he still put on his dumb Cap outfit and went to do something at some hospital for sick kids yesterday, and he still went running this morning, and he still made them dinner last night. But that's all, like, _Cap shit_. It isn't _Steve_. If Steve was being normal he would be listening to his records and humming disgustingly while he makes breakfast (John sings really well: Steve sings like something terrible is happening to him). He would be secretly Pinteresting new recipes and watching otter videos on his phone. He would be popping up all evil in Lily and Mikey's living room to see if they're doing their homework. He would be reading about five boring books about, like, trains or the Civil War or Winston Churchill or something. He would _definitely_ have watched that baseball documentary on PBS last night (Mikey found it for him and was all like _SteveSteveSteveSteve look it's everything you like at the same time_! And Steve just sort of went “oh, thanks,” and didn't even bother to look at the screen). 

Basically he's acting like he wants to kill himself, which is _not_ ok, because Mikey would cry for the rest of his life. So now Lily's busting into Captain America's apartment so that she can _yell at him_.

It's almost four in the afternoon, and Steve is just sitting on his couch staring at the tv. Not really watching it, just staring at it. Sam is there – he's cool, Lily likes him, he's not a moron like _Steve_ – and he kind of gives her this look when she comes in, like, _good luck, kid_. There's this huge hole in the wall like some insanely strong freak of a person punched it, which, _ugh_ , seriously? What a drama queen.

“Steve,” she says, “You have to take me to the gym now.”

He looks at her and blinks a little like he's not sure who she is or where she came from. “Pardon?”

“It's Tuesday,” she says. “We box on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. You _said_. What, were you lying or something? Or you just too busy being all emo because a junkie's acting like a junkie that you forgot all about it? I already _got dressed_. You can't make me put on a sports bra for _no reason_ , that shit is _unflattering_ , I look like some kind of beast right now. Are we going to the gym or not?”

Sam is making _oh no you didn't_! faces at her behind Steve's back. Steve looks embarrassed. 

“Yeah, I – sorry, Lily. Sorry. I'll go get changed.”

He goes into the bedroom. Sam says quietly, “Wow, _nice_. I haven't been able to get him out of the apartment all day.”

Lily says, “You know he can hear you, right?”

“What?”

Lily rolls her eyes. “They have, like, _super hearing_. John's sense of smell is creepy-good too, he can always tell if we ate candy and didn't share.”

Sam looks really happy; it's kind of weird. “The Winter Soldier demands that you share your candy with him?”

“Ugh, he's got, like, some kind of _candy fixation_ ,” Lily says. “He ate my whole bag of twizzlers once. And he always puts like three packs of sugar in his coffee.”

“He was always like that,” Steve says as he comes out of the bedroom. He's in his gym clothes. “His idea of budgeting was to go down the line in order of importance: my heart pills, food, Luckies, whiskey, drinks for his dates, and penny bags of licorice with whatever was left over.” He makes a little face at that. Lily agrees: black licorice is _gross_. “But now I think it's more because pure sugar's one of the only things that'll get a lot of calories into him and not make him sick.” He gives Sam a look. “And yeah, I can hear you when you talk about me in the next room.”

“So wait, you've been listening in on me whenever I step out of the room this whole time?”

Steve gets his Captain-Americanist look on his face. “It doesn't count as eavesdropping if you're talking about _me_.”

Lily cannot _believe_ that these are supposed to be the responsible adults in her life.

 

When they get to the gym Steve makes her jump rope and stuff for a while to warm up, which sucks, but is also usually kind of fun because Steve makes dumb jokes the whole time. Not this time, though: this time he just gets on the treadmill and puts his head down and runs really, really fast for half an hour while Lily does her normal warm-up thing and tries not to trip over her jumprope and smash her face and die. There's like five other dudes in the gym – it's this crappy little sweaty gym-bro place with like two old treadmills and a ton of free weights and a corner with boxing stuff – and all of them are pretending that they aren't staring at Steve, or staring at _her_ because she's _with_ Steve. 

Steve helps her tape up her hands before they actually hit anything. It's kind of weird. You can imagine him being little, when he does stuff like that: drawing or baking cookies or taping up her hands all gentle and everything. 

She says, “Do you ever miss being small?”

He looks up at her and just kind of stares for a second. “No one's ever asked me that before.”

“Well,” she says, “do you?”

He thinks about it for a second. She likes that about Steve. He always actually _thinks_ about questions before he answers them. He doesn't just say some bullshit that he'll end up going back on later on.

“No,” he finally says. “I don't miss it. I was – I don't know what they teach you about me in school. But I was in a lot of pain almost all the time, even when I wasn't laid out with pneumonia or something. Back pain, chest pain, asthma, all of it. Sometimes it took all that I had in me just to get out of bed in the morning. And then when I was doing ok – ” he stops for a second, and then shrugs. “Me'n Buck, we were just friends back then. But how I was – I mean, I was a dainty little blond guy with, you know, _sophisticated tastes_. An _artist_. Buck, he moved in with me even knowing what people would have to say about it. At least with him around people thought I was spoken for. He was running with a tough crowd, then. Some of his cousins were mixed up with the Irish mob. Didn't stop some guys from trying to get fresh with me.” 

He gives a little smile. It doesn't look very happy. “One guy kind of roughed me up a little before I got away, and Bucky found out about it. Few days later I see the guy around the neighborhood and he looks like he got beat up almost half to death, and Buck starts putting his arm around me more often when we're out. Guess he figured if I was going to get treated like a punk people had better think that I was spoken for by a real tough customer. It made me mad as hell. I didn't want him treating me like his punk when I wasn't, and I didn't want him getting himself called a queer for my sake.” 

He stops and pulls his hands away from Lily's. She's all taped up now. “So, no. I don't miss it. Sometimes I think it would have been nice to have been just, you know, a regular guy. Just to see what it was like. How I was – people thought I'd've been better off dead. Sometimes they told me so. That kind of thing, it wears on you. Like bits of you got sandpapered off every day.” He steps back. “Let's practice those combinations I taught you, slugger.”

He holds the bag for her and shouts at her a lot, which is great, because Steve being an asshole is, like, _correct_ Steve. Whenever she gets tired and stops moving he says, “ _Don't be me_ ,” because he's always making fun of himself for getting so mad sometimes that he forgets how to actually box and just stands there and punches as hard as he can until he's so tired that he can't be mad anymore. 

Then Lily takes a break, and Steve does his thing on the bag. At first he's just doing combinations of punches, but then he starts doing some other stuff, kicks and things, and moving more quickly. It's pretty crazy to watch even if you don't know who he is – he's _way_ faster and stronger than a normal person, like in those action movies where they speed things up and have people flying around on wires and shit – and everyone in the gym _does_ know who he is, so after a while they just all give up on what they were doing and stare at him. 

Then he stops really suddenly and flops down on the mats facing Lily, putting his back to the rest of the gym. He says, softly, “How many people were just staring at me?”

“Everyone,” Lily says, and his shoulders kind of slump. Lily scowls, then picks one of the gym-bros to shout at. She tries to come over extra-Mexican, because this dude looks like he's from, like, _Maine_ or something and she figures it will make him all nervous. “Yo papi, you want Cap's autograph or something? He's real friendly and shit, you can just, like, come over here and say hi instead of lurking around all creepy and pointing your phone at him like that, you're making him, like, _really_ uncomfortable right now.”

Steve is blushing. So is the gym-bro, which is really funny. She says, “What's your name?”

The bro's all like, “Um, Owen?”

She says, “Owen, this is Steve. You should try maybe like, talking to him like he's a person some time. The rest of you too,” she says to the whole room. “Like, _damn_ , he comes here all the time and you don't even _talk_ to him, I mean just because his arms are bigger than your whole bodies doesn't mean you need to be _rude_. Like, I bet he would spot for you and shit if you were just _normal_ about it.”

“ _Lily_ ,” Steve says, but he doesn't say _you're wrong_ or _stop that_ , so Lily knows she's done good. Steve grins a little, and it's great: he hasn't smiled for real since John took off and stopped answering his texts. “I _am_ a very reliable spotter,” he says to the room, and all of the gym-bros shuffle their feet.

Steve brings Lily to go get smoothies. They drink them on a bench next to the war memorial a few blocks from home even though it's freezing out, because when they're home both of them keep staring at the windows and waiting for someone to climb through them. Steve says, “You know who you remind me of?”

Lily says, “Mrs. Ramirez at the bodega, because she's the only other Mexican you know?”

Steve says, “You ain't so cute as you think you are.” Then he says, “Me. You remind me of me. Which is probably why we spent the first week you moved in kind of, uh, sniffing and growling at each other. We're a coupla mean, stubborn jerks who yap around the people we care about like border collies.” He kind of nudges her a little with his elbow. “I won't tell you not to roll your eyes at me, because I know you will anyway. But I wanted to tell you that you got me. I mean, I know I'm not much, compared to Buck. But I'm sticking around. Even if Buck – even if he's not going to be around for a while. I don't give up on my people. And you and Mikey are my people now.”

She sucks hard at her smoothie. “You're real cheesy, you know?”

“Yep. I've been told that it's part of my charm.”

She shoves into him with her shoulder. He shoves back so hard that she almost falls off the bench. He giggles at her, all evil and shit. She says, “Yo, that's not, like, _Captain America behavior_ ,” and punches him in the arm. 

He says, “I'm off the clock right now. I'm hanging out with my best girl.”

She says, “Ugh, you are cheesy like we're in _France_ or something, my Asian ass can't tolerate all of this _lactose_ ,” and sucks on her smoothie some more so he can't see how she's smiling.

 

*****

 

Matt is standing on top of his building, listening to the city, when a strung-out homeless cyborg crashes onto the roof next to him and says, "Jesus _fuck_."

Cyborg, because there's an unnerving mechanical whirring emanating from where the guy's left arm should be. Strung-out and homeless because he smells like it: clothes that have been slept in, the breath of someone whose body is digesting itself, and the distinct vinegary smell of heroin.

There's a bit of an awkward silence.

"Mr. Daredevil, I presume," says the junkie cyborg.

Ok, Matt can admit that was pretty well played. Daredevil has a reputation to maintain, though, so he just stares silently at the spot on the roof where the guy is lying like his has no intention of standing up.

"That's a helluva c-costume you got there, champ," the guy says.

"That's a hell of an accent you've got there," Matt says, nettled into speaking. "The last guy I heard talking like that is ninety years old and makes his own gefilte fish."

"What can I say," the guy says. "I'm fuckin' spry for my age. Ate all of my lima beans when I was a kid."

Who _is_ this guy?

Whoever he is, he isn't doing too hot. His heart is hammering and he's clenching his teeth like he's in pain, and he's swallowing a lot of spit like he's nauseous, like he's about to –

Matt jumps out of the way just in time to avoid it when the guy pukes. Fortunately – or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it – the only thing in the guy's stomach to bring up is a spatter of bile, and then he just dry-heaves for a while.

"I don't like telling people their business," Matt says when the gagging stops, "but you don't seem like you're in any shape to be jumping around on the rooftops right now."

"Yeah," the guy says. "Tryna get off the stuff. Thought maybe I could r-r-run it out of my s-system a little. Guess not."

"Wait," Matt says, "you're coming off of heroin and you thought you could _outrun_ it? I'm no addiction expert or anything, but I don't think it works like that."

"Yeah, well, I know that n- _now_ , smartass. And who says I'm coming offa heroin? I could be a regular drunk, for all you know. I could be a goddamn m-m-m-meth head."

This seems to Matt like a really ridiculous hill to die on. "What, you'd prefer it if I thought you were a meth head? Being a heroin addict at least has a certain romance to it; being a meth head's just _depressing_."

"Yeah," the guy says. "I'm feeling especially romantic right now, what with the moonlight, and you, and all of this puke in my hair."

Matt would offer to help anyway, because he's a superhero, and it would probably be frowned on in the superhero community to abandon a junkie who's trying to get clean to go through an agonizing withdrawal alone on a roof. But he's also genuinely starting to like this guy, so he doesn't feel annoyed about it when he says, "Let me take you to the hospital."

"No fuckin' hospitals," the guy says. "This ain't about to k-kill me. I've handled a helluva lot worse."

It would be pretty hypocritical of Matt to argue with the guy on the "no hospitals" point, and he trusts that he isn't bullshitting on having handled worse: he figures that arm has to have some kind of a story attached to it. He changes tactics. "I'm not going to just leave you on this roof. Is there anywhere I can take you? A friend's house? If not there's a rehab clinic –"

"No fuckin' rehab! Jesus Christ, kid, the only reason I picked th-th-this fuckin' roof to crash on is I figured if I went fuckin' nuts and tried to kill you, you'd be able to stay alive l-l-long enough to call in a fuckin' SWAT team to take me out."

“What,” Matt says, “One Daredevil isn't enough to take you out?”

“I ain't the one who said it, k-kid. And here I was trying to s-s-spare your ego a little.”

Matt takes a second to remind himself that the guy is a homeless drug addict, just to keep things in perspective. Then he says, “Ok, listen. I understand that you're concerned that you might, uh, go nuts and try to kill people while you're withdrawing. Is that right?”

“You're a real quick study, kid.”

“So how about I monitor you up here for the next couple of hours? You said yourself that I'll be able to take care of myself if you come after me, and if you don't, then maybe you could consider letting me take you somewhere. I mean, if you don't attack a stranger in a devil costume we can probably safely assume that you won't attack your loved ones, either.”

The guy hesitates for a second, then says, "Yeah. Yeah, ok. Try it out, why the fuck not? What's the w-w-worst that could happen?" 

The worst that could happen, it turns out, is Matt being stuck on a rooftop listening helplessly as the poor guy writhes on the ground and occasionally makes noises that he's pretty sure are choked-back whimpers. A couple of times Matt moves toward him – he's not really sure why, maybe just to put his hand on the guy's shoulder, to try and offer some comfort – but the man growls at him until he backs off again. 

Finally the two hours are up, and Matt clears his throat. “It doesn't seem to me like you're even _capable_ of getting violent right now, buddy. So is there anywhere I can take you?”

There's a long pause. Then Matt hears the rustle and crackle of the guy pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket, and feels the little breeze it makes as he holds it to for Matt. His hand is shaking so hard that the paper's become a moving target. "Take me there."

Matt takes the paper – it's a little thick and heavy, maybe torn out of a sketchbook – and runs his fingers over the address, which a somewhat heavy-handed person has written with a ballpoint pen in neat cursive. It's in Queens; way too far from Hell's Kitchen for Matt to carry a full-grown man on his back.

He sighs and reaches for his phone.

Foggy shows up half an hour later, all fired up to do "superhero stuff where no one gets beaten up!" At this point Matt has his new friend blindfolded – so he can't peek at anything potentially identifying in Matt's apartment, though Matt suspects that this guy might already have him figured out down to his social security number – and lying on his couch, with the worst of the puke sponged off of him. "Hey M-- uh, _Daredevil_ , I'm parked illegally out front, so if you could just – oh, hey, wow, extremely handsome homeless man! That is, uh, a very shiny hand that you have there."

"Thanks," says the apparently extremely handsome homeless guy in question. "I got it in Russia."

"Oh!" Foggy says. "Yes, wow, I'm guessing from the look on your face that this _isn't_ a happy story, and I'm going to stop talking now before I say anything else that's either upsetting or offensive."

"Yeah, _anonymous citizen_ , maybe you should do that," Matt says.

Handsome Hobo says, "Hey, don't stop t-t-talking on my account, I'm having the time of my fuckin' life right now. You two are better than Abbott and Costello."

There's a pause.

"So," Foggy says, "on that frankly _bizarrely_ old-timey note, _Daredevil_ , would you like to help him up so we can go downstairs before I get towed?"

Matt helps him to his feet, the guy's heart rate picking up and skin going clammy as he stands. Matt thinks he has to be in way more pain than he's letting on right now. He's also way, way heavier than such a skinny guy has any right to be. "Hey," Matt says as they head downstairs, "do you have a name, or are we going with Handsome Homeless Guy?

"Well," the guy says, "if I'm stuck calling you Daredevil, I guess you can call me the Revelator."

Foggy makes a weird strangled noise.

"Oh," Matt says after a second. "That – you know, that actually makes a lot of sense. Thanks for taking out Nikita Vladislav, by the way."

"No problem, champ. One of his boys stabbed me thinking I was you, so it was sorta personal. And hey, sorry about that stickup I did on your turf. I kinda had a habit that needed taking care of at the time." He sways a little on his feet. "Well, fuck, I can tell this is gonna be a f-f-fun evening. Why the big palooka decided to b-buy a place in fuckin' _Ridgewood_ I'll never know; it ain't like he can't afford Manhattan."

"Hey, Ridgewood's nice!" Foggy chips in. "Like Brooklyn before everyone who lived there started welding artisan pickles on social media."

"Yeah, that's exactly the fuckin' problem," the Revelator mumbles, but he's clearly feeling too terrible at this point to really put his heart into being a smartass.

They get in the car: Foggy driving, Matt in shotgun, and the Revelator lying down in the back seat. Foggy starts the car, and then says quietly, "Does he look familiar to you?"

"I've been told that I look like James Dean," says the Revelator.

"He just heard me," Foggy whispers.

"Heard that too, champ," says the Revelator.

" _He's like you_ ," Foggy mouths.

"Hey, Daredevil, you got superhearing too?" says the Revelator. Then he says, "Just fuckin' with you, that last one I just read your lips in the rearview."

"It's _dark_ out," says Foggy.

"Never said I _didn't_ have enhanced senses from a Nazi tin-can version of the shit they used to s-s-soup up Captain America," says the Revelator.

Foggy says, "I am – not going to talk anymore."

Their new buddy deteriorates over the course of the ride, and by the time they get to the address in Ridgewood he's audibly moaning in pain while Foggy audibly panics. Foggy stays in the car while Matt half-carries the Revelator to the front door. "Second floor," the Revelator mumbles, and Matt mashes the buzzer.

"Hello?" says a big baritone voice. 

"'S'me, champ," the Revelator says.

" _Buck_ ," says the voice. " _Lord_ , don't – Buck, don't move, I'm coming down."

"Like I could fuckin' move if I fuckin' wanted," says – Buck, apparently. Matt hadn't been aware that that was an actual name applied to actual people.

Then, in way less time than it should take for any human being to descend a flight of stairs, the door flies open and a very large man steps out. He's about 6'4" and built like a brick shithouse, and his heartbeat's unusually slow and steady, maybe 40 beats per minute. Some kind of professional athlete, maybe. Foggy, in the background, makes a muffled screaming noise. A _famous_ athlete?

There's the sound of a big breath being let out, as if the guy's practically fallen over from relief. Deep Voice says, "Oh, _Lord_ , Buck," and scoops Buck up into his arms to hold him upright against his chest, despite the fact that the guy has to weigh about 200 pounds and smells like stale puke. Deep Voice says, "I was scared half outta my _mind_. What the hell were you _thinking_? Where the hell have you _been_? I mean, other than _Long Island City_."

"Dryin' out. Like you wanted. Part of the terms of our Mexican standoff, right?"

"Jesus _Christ_ , Buck, I never wanted for you to try and do it all alone!" He has a little bit of the same accent that his friend does: very old-school New York. It reminds Matt of his dad.

"Lord's name," says Buck.

There's a soft rustle: Deep Voice is smoothing one very big hand over Buck's hair. "Jerk," he says, with a truly weird amount of tenderness. Then he turns toward Matt. "Thanks for bringing him by. You're Daredevil?"

He shifts all of Buck's weight onto one arm, and holds the man like that, as easily as if he was holding a ten pound sack of flour. Then he puts out a hand to shake. "Steve Rogers. You don't have to tell me your name, if you don't want to."

There's a thread of amusement in that big voice. Matt guesses that if you're an internationally revered legend who fights aliens at the behest of the US government a masked vigilante based in a single Manhattan neighborhood must seem kind of, well, _quaint_. Though he can't disapprove too much if he's buddies with the Revelator. Matt's heard some stories about what happens to people who piss the guy off, and they make Matt's nighttime activities sound like a teddy bear picnic.

They shake hands. Captain Rogers has very warm hands, and a carefully gentle grip. Matt is just desperately grateful that his own palms aren't dripping with nervous sweat.

"I think it's great what you're doing in Hell's Kitchen," Captain America says. "And now I owe you for rescuing Buck. If you've got some way for me to contact you I'd like to buy you a beer some time. I mean, if you can take your mask off to drink it." He's sounding amused again.

Matt pulls his mask up onto his forehead. "I'm Matt," he says. "And it would be an honor, sir."

"Hey, Stevie, lookit that," Buck slurs. "He's real cute under there, huh?"

"You're a real wolf, James Buchanan," Captain America says. "We gotta get you upstairs before you bring any more strange guys home. Not that you're uh, _strange_ ," he says to Matt, and he's _blushing_ , all of this heat rising up to his face, which would command all of Matt's attention if it weren't for the fact that Bucky Barnes, American hero and Captain America's right hand man, is apparently now a superhuman cyborg junkie who spent the last hour busting Matt's balls and puking on his shoes.

Captain Rogers says, "And please call me Steve." He's the kind of guy whose voice Matt suspects probably rings with sincerity when he orders takeout, but Matt can tell that that wasn't false modesty: Captain America would genuinely prefer it if you just called him Steve.

He hands Matt a card. "My personal number's the second one. First one's for, uh, emergencies." _Avengers assemble_ , Matt thinks, and suppresses a giggle. "Just send me a text and I'll get back to you once this guy's feeling better."

"I wouldn't say no to going inside, if you two are done necking," Bucky mumbles. He's sounding pretty rough.

"You know I'm a one man guy, Buck," Steve says, and Matt's suddenly sure that he must have one hell of a smile: the warmth of it comes through in his voice. It sounds like a joke, him saying that, just joking around, but his heart gives a little patter, and he shifts Bucky in his arms again, gentle and protective. Bucky settles with his head resting on Steve's shoulder, that frantic heartbeat settling, obviously more comfortable where he is than he has been all evening despite the awkwardness of the position, and Matt thinks, _huh_. They didn't put _that_ in my ninth grade history textbook.

"Thanks again," Steve says. "Hope the rest of your evening goes a little more quietly."

"My pleasure," Matt says, and Bucky snorts.

Matt goes back to the car.

"Matt," Foggy says. "Matt! That was _Captain America_. You just _shook hands_ with _Captain America_."

"He asked me to call him Steve," Matt says. He feels like he has in the past after he's been hit in the head a few too many times in one evening. "He wants to buy me a beer."

"What?"

"That guy. The Revelator. You thought he looked familiar because he's Bucky Barnes."

" _What?_ "

"I think they're a couple."

" _What_?!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference reference:
> 
> 1\. When he talks over the PA system Bucky is paraphrasing the bible versus that inspired the sermon "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God." Carmel is a mountain in Israel, but it's also a town in Putnam county, NY. Bucky would have to take the Metro North up through Westchester again if he wanted to track any Hydra mooks up there.
> 
> Title theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1wZZu93VsNA
> 
> 2\. Secret of Kells: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lw2_HZTuQBE
> 
> 3\. Totoro! https://youtu.be/92a7Hj0ijLs
> 
> 4\. Abbott and Costello: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kTcRRaXV-fg
> 
> 5\. A piglet in galoshes: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1025428/Pig-Boots-The-worlds-porker-afraid-mud.html


	8. Come With Me From Lebanon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve plays nurse. Bruce lends his expertise. Tony receives an assignment. The Black Widow chats with her ex. Some romance. Some bad news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long, my doves! I don't think there's anything here that should disturb anyone who's made it this far; regular warnings for cussing, sexy stuff, and Bucky being inappropriately flippant about his horrible past.

"I'm furious with you," Steve says as he runs Buck his bath. "I've never been angrier in my damn life."

He pulls off Buck's t-shirt and squeezes him hard against his chest. "You're a real jerk, Barnes," he says. Buck makes a muffled squeaking noise, and Steve lets him go. "Oh, geez, did I hurt you?"

Buck shakes his head and slumps forward into Steve's arms. Steve kisses his forehead, then kneels to unlace his boots. Buck is so out of it that he just whimpers a little at the boot and sock removal, and goes limp and pliant when Steve pulls off his jeans and underwear. Steve tests the bath water with his hand, adds a little more cold, then scoops Bucky up in his arms and lowers him gently in. Buck gives a little grunt. The outer plates of his arm all realign and snap shut when he hits the water.

"Do you do that? Adjust your arm like that? Or is it automatic?"

Buck stares blearily up at him. The shivering is getting a little less violent. "S'like . . . blinking."

"So sometimes it's automatic and sometimes you do it?"

"Yeah," he says. His voice is slurring. "Will I be d-d-disciplined?"

"What? No, of course not, why would you – because I said that I'm mad at you? Buck, I'm just mad that you ran off again, that's all. You're not getting punished, I swear."

"I don't want to g-g-go in the dark room. I'll be c-c-compliant."

Steve grabs Buck's hand to kiss his knuckles. "No one's getting put in the dark room. I promise."

Bucky tries to make eye contact. "I want to stay with you. I don't w-w-want to go away."

"Good," Steve says. "Because I'm never letting you out of my sight again, JBB. You're stuck with me forever."

"JBB," Buck says, and smiles a little like he thinks that's real funny.

Steve frowns. "Yeah. That's you."

"I know th-th- _that_ ," Buck says. "I know who I _am_. I'm all de-hydra-ated now."

Steve snorts. "How long have you been sitting on that one for, champ?"

"All d-day. Pretty funny, huh?"

"Yeah, you're a regular Marx brother."

"Y-you're just saying that because I'm a J-j-jew."

Steve sighs, and gives him a little kiss. "You want some of that bubble stuff Sam gave you?"

"Y-yes."

"I figured."

Steve adds some bubbles for him. Buck is still shivering, so he adds hot water too, until Buck's face is all flushed and sweaty and the shaking eases. He mumbles, "Think I might puke again."

Steve grabs the trash can and puts it next to the tub. "Puke in there if you have to. Have you eaten anything? Drunk anything?"

"Some Gatorade." 

“Want some more? I got some in the fridge. Or I could make you some tea and toast.”

“G-gatorade's ok.”

Steve kisses the top of his head, then goes to grab a bottle. When he gets back Buck is leaning his head against the back of the tub, his eyes closed. He's been sniffing like he has a cold, and now he's just letting his nose run. It isn't the most attractive thing that Steve's ever seen. He grabs a washcloth to wipe Buck's face, then kisses his forehead. “Hey. Want to drink something now?”

“Ok.”

Steve's not sure if Buck's being so pliant because he feels terrible or because part of him's still scared that Steve will lock him in a cell if he's bad. He guesses it doesn't matter too much at the moment. He cradles the back of Buck's head with one hand and holds the bottle to his mouth with the other so that he can drink. He knows Buck could probably hold the bottle on his own, but he remembers having bad flus and reaching a point where he just wanted to be taken care of, even if he'd start scowling and pushing any help away the instant he started feeling a little better. Buck drinks, obedient. Steve says, “Want to go to bed, champ?”

“Ok.”

Steve lifts him out of the tub, dries him off, and gets them both into clean sweats. Then he carries Buck to bed. Bucky seems perfectly happy to be carried around, doesn't even put up any token protests. Then again, Steve was the one who had hated being coddled; Buck had always showboated a little when he was sick, trying to get Steve or his ma or his latest girlfriend to fuss over him. He'd been sick so rarely that it must have been kinda fun to lie in bed and have someone bring him cups of broth. 

He gets Buck all tucked in, then crawls in with him. Buck is squirming around, trying to get comfortable, and Steve touches his cheek. “How are you feeling?”

“ _Hurts_ ,” Buck says, and Steve winces: Buck hadn't said that he was in pain when he got _stabbed_. 

“Want me to rub your back?”

“ _No_ ,” Buck says. It comes out as a little wail. “It h-h- _hurts_. T-t-touching. _Negative_.”

“Ok,” Steve says. “Ok. I'm right here, ok? I'm here if you need me.”

Bucky gets worse and worse over the next few hours, his whole world narrowing into how bad he's hurting. He goes back and forth between clinging desperately to Steve and yanking away as if the contact burns him. Steve wants to soothe him, wants to comfort him, but he doesn't know how: he's never had to take care of someone who's sick before. Most of his knowledge of how that should look comes from Bucky himself, Buck cracking jokes and fluffing pillows and slinging one heavy leg over Steve to anchor himself on the narrow bed while he read aloud. Steve can't imitate that – he wouldn't want to even try – so he goes back earlier, to the only other source of tenderness he ever knew.

“ _A thaisce_ ,” he says. “My good boy. You're so good, Buck, being so brave. _Dá fhada an lá tagann an tráthnóna_. You'll be better soon, _a leanbh_ , I promise that you won't feel like this forever.” Just what his ma had always said to him, those same words over and over, even long after he had forgotten his Irish and given up hope that he would ever be anything but sick. 

Buck is back to clinging, hiding his face in Steve's chest. “ _Go raibh maith agat_ ,” he says.

Steve gives him a gentle squeeze. “You remember your Irish?” Buck had had a little Irish when they were kids, mostly from hanging around the Barnes cousins. 

“N-no,” Buck says. “H-hydra. The t-t- _troubles_.” Then he leans over the side of the bed and pukes into the garbage can.

 

Buck sleeps a little. Mostly he doesn't. Mostly he thrashes and whimpers and sweats. Steve doesn't sleep at all, just tries to make himself into a sort of comfortable bolster: available if needed and permissible to ignore if not. He does kiss on Buck a little, because he can't really help it, and Buck seems like he likes it all right for as long as he can stand that much contact. When it gets really bad he acts like he's mad at the air for touching his skin. 

“Steve,” he says suddenly. “Steve, it's _wrong_.”

“What? What's wrong, Buck?”

“T-t-time,” he says. “English. It's _wrong_. Chinese. Time isn't forward, it's d-d- _down_. We d-don't _move forward_. N-no _moving forward_. Falling. We're _falling_.”

“Ok, Buck,” Steve says. “Ok.” He strokes Bucky's hair. “Try to sleep.” 

“You're n-not. _Listening_. Steve. Please. Please don't go. Please don't l-l-leave.”

“I'm not going to leave,” Steve says. “I swear. Not ever, Buck.”

Buck is clinging to him again. “You c-c-can't. You can't p-promise. You c-c-can't stop it. We're _f-f-f-falling_. ”

Steve shakes his head and squeezes Bucky's metal hand as hard as he can. “No, we're not. Not this time.”

Buck manages to doze for a bit, and Steve joins him, jerking in and out of sleep as Buck tosses around. Buck's dripping in sweat, the rank kind that you smell on someone fresh out of a fight that they think they're going to lose. So at six AM Steve gives up on sleep, scoops Buck up in his arms again, and brings him to have another bath. Bucky's exhausted but lucid, and squints hazily at Steve through his eyelashes. “Why're you so fuckin' n- _nice_ to me?”

“Because I'm Captain America, obviously,” Steve says. “Why else would I be nice to you?”

Buck smiles at him, a big, brilliant smile that makes Steve's heart pound in a really embarrassing way. “You s-said why. In a _text_.”

“Yeah, well,” Steve says, blushing. “You left me a note first. It was, uh. One hell of a note, Buck.”

They just kind of stare at each other. Or, Steve stares at Buck: Buck stares at a spot just to the left of Steve's head. Steve says, “Are we ever going to talk about that again?”

Bucky says, “Probably not.” Then he says, “G-go through my stuff. Check everything. S-s-so you know I didn't sneak any smack in here.”

Steve frowns. “I don't need to do that. I trust you, Buck.”

“Then you're a d-damn moron. Come on, Stevie, f-fuckin' humor me.”

“Yeah, ok,” Steve says. “Hey, you remember my friend Bruce?”

“The l-little science man?”

“Yeah, that's the one.” He takes a deep breath. “He's, uh, he's not exactly a regular doctor, but he's about the smartest guy I know, and I thought that maybe he could come over and just check to make sure you're doing ok and maybe he knows if there's some medicine that'll help stop you from hurting so bad.”

Buck shrugs. “Ok.”

Steve frowns. “Oh. Really?”

“Yeah, sure. Why the f-fuck not? Not like I even really notice when some doctor's looking me over anymore. Least I know you won't let that t-tiny science man saw my other arm off or cut my brain open to s-see how it works.”

“No one's gonna try and saw your arm off or cut your brain open, Buck.”

“Y-yeah,” Bucky says, as if it's obvious. “Because you won't _let_ them.”

Steve leaves him to soak, then does as he's told, dutifully rifling through Bucky's stuff. He finds no smack, but he does find Bucky's notebook, which he guiltily peeks inside. Most of the recent pages are in Russian, but near the back he spots, “Tell handler that I love him? Breach in protocol???” Steve isn't really sure how to feel about that. On the one hand, _handler_. On the other hand, _oh, Buck._

He carefully puts everything back in the knapsack how he found it – except for the filthy clothes, which go into the wash – and then makes a call. Bruce picks up on the third ring. "Steve! Is everything ok?"

Steve winces. "I feel bad that I can't give you a call without you figuring that something's wrong."

"Well," Bruce says, "you're a foster parent with a disabled partner, and you're Captain America professionally. If you're calling me at seven in the morning it seems safe to assume that something's gone horribly wrong. I mean, you aren't calling to invite me to brunch, are you?"

" _Disabled partner_ ," Steve repeats.

"I'm sorry," Bruce says. "Is partner not a word that you use?"

"It makes it sound like we run a five and dime together," Steve says. He doesn't know how he feels about _disabled_ , either: Buck has some problems, but a few dozen Hydra mooks could testify to _lack of ability_ not being one of them. "But, uh, I do need your help. Do you know if there's anything that you could do for a supersoldier in withdrawal?"

There's a moment of silence. Then Bruce says, "Alcohol?"

"Um. Heroin."

"Oh," Bruce says. "Ok. There are some options. Would you like me to come by and talk to him about them? I assume that Sasha will be making his own medical decisions."

Steve could kiss him. "Yeah. That'd be swell, Bruce. Thanks."

"No problem," Bruce says. "I'll be there by ten."

"I'll make brunch," Steve says, and Bruce laughs. 

Steve goes back into the bathroom and goes through the whole process of getting Buck out, dried, clothed, and back into bed. Buck is squirming and clinging, tired and in pain. He nuzzles his face into Steve's shoulder and Steve kisses the top of his head. Buck rears back a little and makes a disgusted face. Steve smiles despite himself. "You're like a cat or something. Want me to touch you until I touch you."

Buck says, "My s-s- _skin_ hurts."

There's a loud pounding on the door, and Steve goes to open it, trying not to look too alarmed. Mikey and Lily come charging in, one on each side of him like they planned out some sort of flanking maneuver, which knowing Buck they probably learned to do as a family bonding experience. "Hey," he says. "Mind telling me what's going on?"

"He's _here_!" Mikey says. His whole little self is kinda vibrating with indignation. "John's _here_ and you didn't _tell_ us, we wouldn't have even _known_ if we didn't hear the bathtub draining."

Steve blinks. "We could've used you two in the SSR. Yeah, he's here. He got in around midnight, and he wasn't doing so hot, so I didn't remember to text you. Want to say hi? I was going to go get you once he was done with his bath anyway."

They both deflate a little. Mikey says, "Oh my God, is he ok? Did he get, like, _shot_ or something?" With those big eyes as wide as they go. His bottom lip is shaking a little.

Steve gives him a little smile. "He's, uh. He isn't injured. It's been, um, I guess about 36 hours now since the last time he shot up, so he's feeling pretty punky."

"What?" Lily's eyes are as big as Mikey's, now. "He's getting clean? Like, for real? He didn't like sneak some dope in his pockets or anything?"

Steve shakes his head. "I went through his stuff. He told me to do it while he was in the bath just now: I wasn't sneaking around behind his back. And how he's been feeling, I don't think he could fake that. He's hurting pretty bad. So go easy on him, ok?"

The kids just glare at him.

He herds them into the bedroom, and Buck levers himself up onto his elbows and tries to focus his eyes in their direction.

Even Steve's a little taken aback by how terrible Buck looks, and he saw him two minutes ago. His face is ashy and shiny with sweat, and he's trembling visibly, struggling to hold himself up. His pupils are so wide that his eyes look black. Lily goes rigid at the sight of him. Mikey takes a step closer to the bed, then stops and glances back at Steve. Buck gives a little smile. It looks like it hurts him. "You scared of me now t-t-too, slugger?"

" _Oh my God_ ," Mikey says, and launches himself onto the bed to give Buck a hug. "Oh my God, _fuck you_ , we thought you were never going to come _back_ again, you _bitch_ , how could you _do_ that to us –"

"Hey," Buck says weakly. "I'm real s-s-sorry, sweetheart. I was scared I'd stick a g-gun in your face again. Had to m-m-make sure I wasn't gonna go nuts on you before I came home."

"But you're really home now, right?"

They all look at Lily. Her fists are clenched at her sides. "You came home. You really came home. You're not going to leave again, right?" She's crying, that tough little face all crumpled up with it. "Steve was acting all weird and messed up and Mikey kept crying even though I told them, I _told_ them that junkies always leave, so you can't _do_ that again, John, you have to promise not to do it again, they are _so dumb_ and they keep _believing_ in you and shit, so you'll break their hearts for real this time and I can't -" She's crying too hard to finish.

Steve grabs her and gives her a hug, just out of instinct, then realizes that he's probably squashing her into his sternum and lets her go. But she kinda dives back in there, so he picks her up off of her feet so she can put her face on his shoulder instead of getting smashed into his chest. She wraps her arms around his neck and cries a little more into his t-shirt while he just stands there quietly with one arm braced under her thighs and the other rubbing her back. Then she sniffs and says, "You can put me down, Steve," and he does. She looks a little red and splotchy, but he looks like that most of the time, so he won't judge.

Buck says, "Steve? Christ, I – I g-gotta get to the bathroom."

Steve moves in to pick him up, but Buck shoots a glance toward the kids and then looks back at Steve. _They shouldn't see that_. So Steve just helps Buck to his feet and provides an arm for him to lean on, even though he ends up practically carrying Buck anyway, taking all of his weight for him. Once he delivers Buck safely to the toilet he makes a rapid exit, wanting to give the guy a little dignity. He herds the kids into the kitchen. “French toast? Pancakes?”

“French toast,” Lily says.

“Pancakes,” Mikey says.

Steve says, “Either arm wrestle or rock paper scissors, I'm not running a restaurant here.”

They do rock paper scissors. Mikey wins, so Steve goes to the cupboard and starts pulling out ingredients. “Mikey, you're on coffee duty. Lily, fruit salad. We have a guest coming over at ten hundred.”

“Oh my God, _Steven_ , it's only 7:30, the coffee will be totally _cold_ by then,” Mikey says.

“Yeah, and I plan on drinking a lot of coffee to prepare for receiving a guest at ten hundred,” Steve tells him. 

Mikey says, “ _Ugh_.”

Lily says, “Who's coming?”

Steve clears his throat. “My friend Bruce.”

Lily raises her eyebrows. “Since when do you have _friends_? Like, no offense or anything.”

Mikey rolls his eyes. “Oh my God, shut up, bitch, Steve totally has friends. _Sam_ is his friend. And, um, Black Widow?”

“I have _lots_ of friends,” Steve says. “I have . . . more than four.”

Lily says, “Is one of them Sam's mom?” 

“I'm gonna need less back-talk and more fruit-chopping outta you, recruit,” Steve says, and pretends that he needs to find something under the sink.

Bruce shows up exactly at ten, because he's a very punctual guy. He's wearing a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and he could probably use a haircut. His curls are growing out, turning into little ringlets. Steve is having trouble looking directly at him. “Hey, Bruce,” he says. “This is Lily, and this is Mikey. This is Bruce, recruits.”

“Hi, Bruce!” Mikey says. Lily salutes, because she's a real smartass. Bruce gives that gentle smile of his and shakes hands with both of them, which makes Mikey giggle and Lily smile in the embarrassed way that means she's really happy about something. 

“Pancakes?” Steve says. “Coffee? Fruit salad?”

“Oh,” Bruce says. “You weren't joking about brunch. Wow. Yeah, all of that would be great. Thanks, Steve.”

Steve gives him a plate with way too much food on it, which he realizes as soon as he sets it down. “Sorry. I'm too used to feeding me and Buck. Oh, geez, I gotta go wake him up. I'll be right back. Sorry,” he says, and wishes he was already in the bedroom.

He really doesn't want to wake Buck up, once he gets in there. The poor guy got so little sleep last night. And he looks really sweet, while he's sleeping. You can't tell what a jerk he is at all. Also, sometimes if you wake him up too suddenly he tries to stab you. Fortunately he isn't armed right now; Steve really doesn't want any stabbings to happen with Bruce around. He sits on the edge of the bed and says, “Hey, Buck,” as softly as he can. Buck makes an angry little noise and sort of retracts under the blankets like a turtle. Steve peels them back a little. Buck retracts more. Steve says, “Cut that out, slugger, you gotta get up. Bruce is here.”

Bucky says, “ _Nyet_.”

“Oh, that's how it is, huh?” Steve says. 

Bucky says, “ _Da_.”

“Can you actually not speak English right now, or are you just being a pain?”

“You s-s-say that like I gotta pick just one. I can be crazy and an asshole at the same time, Steve.” He has his face smashed right into his pillow so all Steve can see of him is the hair sticking out like a mop.

Steve gives him a little swat on the rear end. _Gently_ ; he's not some kind of monster. “Come on, pal, I promise it won't take long. Just let Bruce check you out and then you can go right back to bed. Maybe eat a pancake first.”

“ _Nyet_ ,” Bucky says.

“I'll carry you out there like a bride, see if I don't.”

“That'd l-l-look pretty queer, Rogers.”

“I hate to point this out, but you're in my bed and wearing a pair of my boxers right now, Barnes. If we're aiming for not looking queer, we're missing.”

He eventually gets Buck out of bed, decent and upright, and drags him out to the living room. Bruce gives him a sympathetic smile. “Hi, Sasha. Why don't you sit down on the couch?”

Buck doesn't sit so much as collapse. Then he says, “Hi. Your hair looks real cute like that.”

Bruce blinks. “Really? Tony says that I look homeless.”

Buck just raises his eyebrows.

“Oh,” Bruce says. “That was – this is why I'm not a real doctor. Bedside manner is obviously not my strength.”

“Aw, I think you're d-doing fine,” Buck says. “I mean, you haven't tasered my balls or peeled any of my skin off to see how fast it grows back yet, so this is already b-better than what I'm used to.”

“Dad?” says Mikey, who has snuck in from the kitchen. He's gone all wide-eyed. “That, like, didn't really happen, did it? You're just joking?”

“Mikey,” Steve says, “I think that you and Lily should go downstairs.”

They do, looking small and scared. Buck runs his right hand over his face. “I f-fucked that up.”

“It's ok,” Steve says. “It's ok.”

Bruce gives Buck a quick little checkup. He's really great about it, telegraphing all of his movements and asking for permission before he touches him. Steve makes a mental note to thank him later. Buck looks like he's torn between being grateful and wanting to be a jerk about it, but fortunately he settles on grateful and does the pliant, sleepy thing that Steve suspects means that he's trying to be a good asset. Which is kind of awful, but at least means that Bruce doesn't get strangled. 

The results of the checkup aren't great. Bruce says that Buck is dehydrated, which isn't that surprising, and also severely malnourished, which isn't surprising either but makes Steve feel like the worst guy on earth. He can't even keep his guy from half _starving to death_ on his watch. Some Captain America.

Bruce gives him a long look, and then says to Buck, “Your appetite should eventually come back, but you need to keep yourself fed. Put a timer on your phone if you have to. If your metabolic needs are anything like Steve's you're going to be needing a lot of fuel. I have access to the sort of stuff they distribute to famine victims if you think you're not going to be able to manage getting in enough normal food.”

“Uh,” Buck says. “Steve bought me these m-milkshake things? Are those ok?”

Bruce talks him through the different stuff he could try eating. Then he asks, “Are you sleeping?”

Buck gives Bruce a look like he's asked him if he sleeps hanging upside-down from the ceiling like a bat. 

Bruce says, “Ok, I'm going to assume that you're not. I can get you a prescription for a sleep aid, if you want one.”

Steve blinks. “Isn't that illegal?”

Bruce says, “Yes. But since Sasha legally doesn't exist and is also on several terrorism watchlists, and from what you've told me he would strongly prefer not to be in a hospital setting, his getting a prescription in the normal way wouldn't be very practical. And I happen to believe that him being outside of the system shouldn't mean that he has no access to medical care.” 

He's getting a little green around the edges. Steve says, “Yeah, of course. I just meant that I thought it might be tricky for you.” He didn't exactly mean that, but it seems like a good idea to agree with Bruce right now.

“I have connections,” Bruce says. He sounds a little smug. Then he says, “There's also methadone and subox-” 

“No,” says Bucky. “N-n-nothing like that. I'll j-j-just get hooked on whatever it is and do this all over a-fucking-gain. Fucking _methadone_ – ” He stops. “Hey, champ, did you leave the stove on?”

“No,” Steve says. “Why?”

Bucky shakes his head. “You sure? Smells like something – ” He trails off, looking distracted, then traces one hand lazily through the air.

Bruce frowns. “Sasha?”

Buck doesn't respond, just paws at the air again. Steve's heartbeat starts to pick up. “Buck? Buck, are you ok?”

No response. Bruce says, “Steve, move the coffee table back,” just as Buck's whole body goes rigid and he starts to jerk.

*****

This whole hospital thing really isn't Tony's scene. 

Of course this isn't just any hospital, this is the medical suite in Avengers Tower, so obviously it's spectacular. Sometimes Tony walks through it for the first time in a while and is amazed all over again by just how truly technologically advanced his tower is. But it's still full of _sick people_ , who need to be _interacted with_ , and _comforted_ , and the whole thing is really very stressful, to be perfectly honest. But here he is, bearing a bottle of Laphroaig and a smile, and trying not to breathe in through his nose. “Jarvis,” he says, “remind me to work on some kind of filter that will get rid of hospital smell.”

“Yes, sir,” Jarvis says. “Shall I pull up the schematics that you developed during Mr. Hogan's convalescence?”

Huh. Tony had forgotten about those.

He gets to Sasha's room and knocks on the door, but doesn't wait for a response before he sails in. “Honey! I'm home!”

“Hey, Ghostface,” Sasha says from the bed. Cap kind of tosses off a salute. He's sitting in the chair next to Sasha's bed holding a paper copy of _Mother Jones_ , because of course he is. Tony has been saving up pictures of Cap in compromising Socialist positions, just in case there comes a time when a little leverage against Captain America could come in handy. He has a few shots of him looking distraught over Howard Zinn which he thinks would look good on the front page of the Fox News website.

“Whoa there, Tom Waits,” Tony says. Sasha sounds _terrible_. “Have you been eating broken glass again? You _know_ it doesn't actually make you more powerful in battle.”

“Feeding tube,” Sasha croaks, gesturing to his throat.

“Buck was kinda out of it for a few days there,” Cap says. “Only time he woke up was to rip his tubes out and try to jump out the window.” He sounds . . . New Yorkier than normal. Tony would make a joke about it, but his boyfriend the Winter Soldier is _right there_. He could tear Tony's arms and legs off and stick them back on so that the arms are where the legs were and the legs where the arms were, and though just literally becoming Iron Man would be a real time saver in terms of getting in and out of the suit he thinks that Pepper wouldn't approve. Also, Cap looks and sounds completely exhausted, and even Tony has limits when it comes to harassing someone who's had a week as bad as Cap's has been. 

“I fucking _hate_ f-f-feeding tubes,” the Winter Soldier says. Aw, he's all cranky. The crankiest little heroin-addicted Soviet murder machine. It would make a nice children's book. 

Tony says, “I brought you a present for after you're paroled!” and waves the whisky bottle at Sasha. 

Steve says, “He's an addict!”

Sasha says, “Shut up, S-steve. Tony, _sweetheart_. You're an angel, baby, come to papa.”

“You know, I can really see where you're coming from on this one, Cap,” Tony says. “You're dating a real gem. A blood diamond in the rough, as it were. I'm actually surprised to see this level of good taste from a guy who tucks his plaid shirts into his khakis.”

“Letting you come by was a terrible idea,” Cap says.

“Not as t-t-terrible as your plaid shirts,” says the Winter Soldier. Tony gives him a high five. Cap glares at them patriotically. Sasha says, “Aw, cut out that sourpuss, honey, you're so much prettier when you smile.”

Cap glares for a second longer, then says, “How the heck am I supposed to smile when I'm being subjected to the ruined obelisk sticking outta your face? They should have some guy in a pith helmet digging around that thing.”

Sasha wheezes out a little laugh, then says, “Listen, I don't gotta listen to a goddamn w-word you say, dollface. I've watched some real shitty m-movies since I've been in here, and if there's one thing I've learned about the f-future from them it's that everyone's got their role to play.” He points to Tony, himself, and then Cap. “Brains, for hacking shit. Scarred-up evil m-mook number two, for b-blowing up a bunch of guys and then getting killed in the last twenty minutes. And _tits and ass_ , for motivating the hero while I b-b-bleed to death. You got about five lines that ain't ‘I love you’ in the whole feature, sweetheart, you sure as shit ain't _m-mission command_.” 

Cap is _cackling_. It's frankly a little disturbing. Tony regrets not having actually programmed Jarvis with any anti-pod-person protocols. Sasha gives Cap a slow smile. “Go home and get some sleep, slugger, I'll be f-fine here with Ghostface. Promise I'm not actually gonna start drinking any w-whisky in my hospital bed if you go take a fuckin' nap.”

“You sure?” says Cap, all _sweet_ and _smiling_ and _tender_. Who is this man, and what did he do with Captain America?

“Y-yeah, sweetheart, I'm sure. C'mere, huh?”

Tony has a panicked moment when he thinks they might kiss, but Sasha just grabs Cap and gives him a quick hug. He even pounds him on the back a little, for maximum bro. “Thanks for staying with me, champ. See you later, huh?”

“Yeah,” Cap says. “See you later.”

Tony really hopes that he's never looked like Cap does right now. It's embarrassing, honestly; way too many feelings on display. But he thinks he's _felt_ that way. Cap looks like he'd fly a nuke into space if he thought it would keep Barnes safe.

For the first time ever, when it comes to Cap, Tony can kind of relate.

Cap exits, and Barnes sort of collapses back into the bed, and rasps out, “ _Christ_.”

“Whoa, hey,” Tony says. “Do I need to call a nurse?”

“No, J-jesus, they'll take the whiskey. Just, uh. You know. N-not at my fuckin' best. And they w-won't fuckin' let me _out_ of here.”

“Well, I mean, that isn't _un_ reasonable. Jarvis told me that you had four seizures the other day before you stabilized. And you're somewhat emaciated. And I probably _really_ shouldn't be giving you whisky, are you on medications?”

“About fuckin' t-t-twenty of 'em, champ. Don't know when me and me new b-baby are gonna be able to spend some quality time together,” he says, and gives the Laphroaig a burning look. Then he says, “Hey, I n-need a favor.”

“What an incredible coincidence,” Tony says. “So do I! What do you want? I'm sure we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement.”

Barnes nods. “I want you to microchip me.”

Huh. In the annals of “Favors that people ask from Tony Stark,” that's definitely a new one. “Like a dog?”

“L-like a fuckin' dog. So if I go nuts and start blowing shit up you all can track me down and take me the f-fuck out. Oh, yeah, that too. Think you could shoot me in the head if you had to?”

Tony narrows his eyes. “Is this a trick question? I feel like I'm being tested.”

“N-nope. Just need to know that s-someone will take me out when the time comes. Steve sure as shit won't do it, and n-n-normal people can't take me out. I figure you have a decent shot at it in that suit of yours, and you probably g-got it in you to put me down if I'm putting your people in danger.”

“I'm not sure whether to feel insulted,” Tony says.

“Take it as a f-fuckin' compliment,” Sasha says.

“I do usually prefer to interpret the things that people say about me in that way.”

Barnes is staring steelily at a point just to the left of Tony's head. Tony says “Hey, so now that I've promised to microchip you and then put you down like a rabid animal, let's talk about what _I_ get out of this deal.”

“Whatever you want,” Sasha says. 'you need someone taken out?”

“What? No, that definitely isn't what I want, why would you just assume that I need someone taken out?”

Sasha raises his eyebrows. “I know you're a genius and all, but that's a d-dumb fuckin' question. For the past eighty years my major functions have been assasinations, d-d-destruction of property, and getting n-n-nonconsensually fucked up the ass, and I figured you'd have the most need of the first.”

“Whoa,” Tony says. Comforting rape victims is even higher on the list of things that Tony Stark Doesn't Do than visiting hospitals. It may be in the top five, along with laying flowers on daddy's grave and joining Alcoholics Anonymous. “Too much information, sorry to hear about about the rape thing, I'll have a list of referrals for the city's best trauma therapists in Cap's phone, in – Jarvis, can we do that in two minutes? Let's say in two minutes. Sasha, baby, all I want is some quality time with you. And your arm. In my lab. And also this medical wing, because I want brain scans. I saw the plates in that thing flick open when you gave Cap a hug, and the fact that your prosthetic arm reacts to your boyfriend's patriotic embrace and I don't know why or how is frankly offensive to me.”

Barnes shrugs. “Do what you like. Just d-don't vivisect me, other than that I don't give a shit.” He holds out his right hand. “We got a deal?”

They shake on it. “So hey,” Tony says, “ _off_ the topic of your incredibly depressing life, I promised you fine media that Cap won't show to you. So pick your poison: your favorite World War, or the wild west.”

“You want to show me some W-w- _western Front_ shit? I'm s-starting to think that you're just a bad as the internet says.”

“You use the internet? No, wait, never mind, I never asked that question, of _course_ you do. And I'm very hurt by what you just said. I'm a wonderful human being, and you'll _love_ this exceptional World War Two movie that I have carried to you personally in my own . . . network.”

Barnes hits him with the most spectacular blank-faced, vaguely menacing stare that Tony's ever seen in his life. “We'll fuckin' see.”

When Cap comes back, hours later, they're three episodes into Deadwood. Barnes has been enjoying the hell out of it, but he pauses it when Cap walks in. “Stevie! Hey! You gotta make me a fuckin' promise, sweetheart.”

Cap looks understandably wary. “What kinda promise?”

Sasha's grinning. “If I end up fighting f-fucking aliens with you crazy assholes, I'm picking my own call sign.”

“Oh yeah?” Cap says, crossing his arms over his chest. “What's that?”

“It's great, Cap,” Tony says. “Totally apt, thematically sound, you'll love it.”

“I hate it already,” Cap says. “Tell me.”

“ _The Bear-Jew_ ,” Tony and Barnes chorus.

Cap says, “I don't love it.”

“Hopeless,” Tony says. “Your man has no taste, Sasha, no taste at all. It's sad, really. I feel for him, I really do. It must be very stressful to be so incredibly _wrong_ all the time.”

Cap says, “I don't think I want you two seeing each other anymore.”

“You can't k-keep us apart, mom, we're in _love_ ,” Sasha says.

Cap just sighs.

*****

Natasha takes a long breath. Then she lets it out.

Still. Calm.

Sasha is in the shooting range. Bucky. James Buchanan Barnes.

She hates this.

He's in the shooting range. He looks terrible, the worst she's ever seen him: skinny and pale and visibly aged, his cheeks collapsed in, his eyes dark and hollowed-out. Stark told her that he had just been allowed to leave his hospital bed yesterday, but they're keeping him under observation in the tower and waiting to see if he collapses again before they let him go home tonight. 

She hadn't been able to bring herself to go see him in the hospital, laid out in a bed with tubes sticking out of him. 

He's throwing his knives, as steady and blank as he always was when he was working. The sound of it is familiar. Reassuring. _Thok, thok, thok_. He's set up the targets to move at random, and he hits them dead center each time. _Thok, thok, thok_. He isn't Clint – she's seen him hit off-target, once or twice – but he's close. 

He was always at his most beautiful when he was like this, settled in with his knives or his rifle. Cool and distant, all of the passion and panic behind his eyes snuffed out. Beautiful and untouchable. Like something you'd go to see at the MOMA. 

She gives herself two minutes to watch him. Then she takes another breath.

Still. Calm. 

She walks into the range. She says in Russian, “Sasha. You look like shit.”

He throws his last knife before he turns. Looks her up and down. It's not a flirtatious look: it's an appraisal, an assessment of threat level. It seems that she passes muster, because he gives her a slow smile. “Sorry, s-sweetheart, Russian ain't a go today.” He taps his temple with one finger. “You need to kibitz a bit in fuckin' Hindi I'm your f-fuckin' guy.” He has the thickest New York accent she's ever heard, which shouldn't be surprising but sounds unnervingly foreign coming out of his mouth, like watching the dubbed version of a movie. She's already been warned about the stammer, but hearing it is still a shock. It's too soft, too vulnerable for the man she knows. 

He's staring at her now. The familiar line between his eyebrows makes something clench up in her throat. He says, “ _Natashka_? Holy _shit_ , sweetheart, is that you?” 

Then he's hugging her, pressing her tight against his chest. She can feel the strength that still remains in his too-thin body, smell the cigarettes and gunpowder on his t-shirt. She hugs him back, because her body doesn't know how to do anything else with Sasha so close, with the scent of him in her nose. She says, “You remember me.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, sweetheart, I remember you.” He steps back and gives her another up-and-down look. This one seems strange, somehow. Almost – _proud_. “God, look at you, all grown up. When'd you get so beautiful, huh?” 

For a moment she can't process it at all. She feels hot and cold all at once. Stress response. Fight-or-flight. She breathes in and out. She says, “What?”

“Christ, sweetheart,” he says, “the l-l-last time I saw you you were, how old were you, thirteen?”

She finally manages to speak. “Sasha, the last time I saw you, you fired a rocket launcher at me. The time before that you shot a target _through_ me. The time before that I was a grown woman, and we were lovers.”

“What?” he says. Then, “No. No _fucking_ way, sweetheart, n-n- _no_ , I wouldn't – ” He rakes his hand back through his hair. “Y-y-you were my little champ, I met you when you were _six_ , I wiped your g-goddamn _nose_ for you, honey. You called me _papa_ a few times when you were real little, I had to make you cut it out so they wouldn't separate us. How could I – _f-fuck_.” He swallows. “Shit. I think I might be s-s-s-sick.”

“Thanks,” Natasha says. She feels dull. Blank. Deeply, deeply tired.

“Oh, sweetheart, I d-didn't mean it like that, you're about the prettiest dame I ever saw. But _Jesus_ , honey, I had to explain to you what your, uh, _time of the month_ was when you were twelve, because n-n-no one ever bothered to treat you like a l-little girl instead of a fucking robot. I never – Christ, the l-l-last thing you needed was one more p-piece of shit _using_ you.” 

“You didn't,” Natasha says. “We were – ” She stops. “I cared about you. And you cared about me.”

Sasha looks at her quietly for a moment. He looks old, in that moment, every bit as ancient as she knows him to be. He's much older than Steve. He's a man, she thinks, who has been stripped bare, who has no secrets left from himself. “We were in love, huh?”

“Love is for children,” she says. It's automatic. _Stress response. Fight or flight_.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Sasha says. “What d-dumb asshole told you that?”

She remembers then, a sudden red bolt. Crying, screaming. _Sasha, Sasha don't go, where are you taking him, don't hurt him, please don't hurt him_ – 

She shivers. Involuntary muscle contraction. He pulls her in for another hug. He smells so familiar. More familiar than her oldest memories. 

“Of course we were in l-love,” he says. “I loved the hell out of you, sweetheart. M-must have remembered that, even if I forgot why.”

“I felt like I knew you from the first day we met.” She lets him hold her. “I suppose that makes more sense now.”

He laughs. It's a rusty thing, just like hers. “Christ, sweetheart,” he says. “Coupla _shlimazels_ we are, huh? Stevie too, Jesus. Just one f-fucking thing after another.”

She smiles. “You call him Stevie?”

“Yeah. What? What's so f-f-funny about that?”

“Nothing,” she says, and lets herself lean into him. “It's sweet. I'm glad that you have each other.”

He's quiet for a bit, then puts his metal hand to the back of her neck and works his thumb unerringly into the muscle there that cramps up when she's tense.

 _He used to do that for you before he started unbuttoning your shirt_ , her brain supplies.

She tells her brain to fuck off and rests her forehead against his chest so he can get a better angle. She says, “I've missed you, Sashka.” Then she says, “This isn't how I imagined that this reunion would go.”

He gives another little crackle of a laugh. “Yeah? How did you imagine it?”

“There were a few versions. The one where you shoot me again. The one where you don't attack me but also have no memory of me. The one where you throw over Steve and we run away together. I'm not proud of that one,” she adds when he stiffens slightly. “But you did ask.” 

“I'd throw over anyone but Steve and the k-k-kids for you, Natashenka.” 

She smiles. “I suppose that if I have to be in second place it might as well be after Captain America.”

“Fuck C-cap,” Sasha says. “I'm nuts about this dumb asshole named Steve. And you ain't in s-second place, sweetheart, I just got a lot of logistics to consider. Can't run out on my best guy for my baby sister, can I? You seen how he gets when I l-l-leave him alone for a second, he's a goddamn mess.”

“Baby sister,” she says, rolling it around in her mouth a little. He nods, working his fingers into a stiff spot in her shoulder. 

“Yeah. I'm sorry, sweetheart, I really am. I'm s-sorry I ain't the guy you're looking for.”

“No,” she says. “I like it.” She's almost surprised to hear herself say it. “There's not very many people in my life who give a damn about me and don't want to shoot me, fuck me, or deploy me.” She considers for a moment. “Actually, Steve may be one of the only ones, really. I don't think I've ever met a man who seemed _less_ interested in having sex with me.”

Sasha snorts. “That little Catholic weasel's just real good at hiding it.”

“No,” she says, “It's something else.”

“He likes 'em dark,” Sasha offers. “Never really went for b-b-blondes or redheads.”

“He likes them firey,” she says. “I'm too cold. Passionless. Like a lizard.”

He puts his hands on her shoulders, the metal one and the flesh one. “Natashka,” he says, “I know I've forgotten more shit than I remember. And I know I'm a crazy, fucked-up son of a bitch. But I _know_ you, sweetheart. And if there's one thing you ain't, it's that.”

It's just flattery, of course. Just him being kind.

She tucks her head under his chin. She says, “It's nice of you to say so.”

*****

Buck gets home just before dinner. Steve had wanted to stay with him at the tower all day, but Buck had put a stop to that idea real quick. Someone needed to get dinner started for the kids, and Buck wanted to come home to something that smelled better than hospital food. So now when he lets himself in – through the door, even though it makes him queasy, because he's not really up to scaling a wall just yet – he finds Steve in the kitchen. Playing some old record and humming along a little while he chops an onion. Bouncing on the balls of his feet. 

Christ, the kid still doesn't have a scrap of rhythm. 

He walks quietly up behind him and slips his arms around his waist.

Steve screams like Mikey.

Buck sniggers into the back of his neck.

Then he says, “Hey there, s-s-sweetheart.”

“That's it,” Steve says. “I'm going to glue quarters to the bottoms of your shoes.” Buck rubs his right hand over Steve's crotch. It feels like an ok thing to do with both of them dressed and standing in the kitchen. Steve doesn't move. He says, “Wow, hey, Buck.”

“Hey y-yourself,” Buck says. “What you get for being so fuckin' cute.”

“I think there was something about lines like that in the SHIELD employee handbook,” Steve says. “I think I was just sexually harassed.”

“Those shitheads were all Hydra. What the f-f-fuck do they know?”

Steve giggles. That's the only fuckin' thing to call it. It's all right. Buck can keep a secret; he won't tell anyone that Captain America giggles more than the Black Widow did when she was six years old. He kind of wants to say _I love you so bad it makes me fucking sick_ , but the thought of saying it makes him feel sick too. So he just mouths at the back of Steve's neck just above his collar until Steve elbows him and says, “You're gonna make me chop my fingers off.”

Buck steps toward the counter. “Let me. I'm. Very good with knives.” When he's with Steve it's ok if talking gets hard. Steve won't think it means he's stupid.

“Yeah, hotshot, I noticed that back when you were trying to stab me to death.”

“Unfair,” Buck says. “Blaming a guy. For sh-sh-shit he does while he's b-brainwashed.”

“I'm not blaming,” Steve says. “Just observing.”

_I love you so fucking much you smirking little asshole._

“Let me chop the f-f-fucking onion, Steve.”

Steve lets him chop the onion. That's fucking love, right there. Letting the brainwashed assassin chop your fucking onions for you.

Turns out Steve's making meatballs. Buck says, “Now you can be. With your p- _people,_ ” and Steve gets the giggles so bad that he can't chop safely and Buck has to take over. 

Steve laughing so hard that he can't chop shit is about as positive as it fucking gets.

Cooking dinner together is good. Positive. Listening to Steve's records is positive. Most of it's real sappy, but there's one lady who makes all of the hairs on Buck's neck go up.

“Who is this?”

Steve looks a little worried. “Why? You don't like it? I can change the record – ”

“Calm down, sweetheart. I l-like it. Who is it?”

Steve smiles all over his dumb meatball face. “It's Billie Holliday. You, uh. You used to like her a lot.”

“Yeah. I got g-good fuckin' taste. Except for. In guys.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I have the same problem. This guy I'm sleeping with, he's got a nose like a building after the blitz – ”

Buck throws a piece of onion at his head.

Then he says, “I t-talked to Natasha today.”

Steve goes very still. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Buck says. “It was nice.”

“Oh?” Steve says again.

What a mook.

“Yeah, I told her that I remember her from when she was fuckin' s-six years old and think of her like a baby sister.”

“Oh,” says Steve.

Buck throws another piece of onion at his head. 

The cook. They eat family dinner. They annoy the goddamn kids. They read Harry fucking Potter.

Bucky is –

Happy. He's fucking _happy._

The kids go downstairs to go to bed and him and Steve are alone.

That sneaky motherfucker's up to something.

He's kinda slinking around, looking all shifty-eyed. Says, “Want to watch a movie? You can pick. I, uh, gotta do something in the kitchen.”

He slinks off into the kitchen. Buck looks at Netflix. Nothing but garbage. He squirms around, then lies down on the couch with his feet on the armrest. He calls out, “Steve, I'm bored outta my goddamn _mind_ out here.”

“Can't you entertain yourself for one minute?” Steve calls back. There's some kind of horrible racket from the kitchen. 

Buck says, “I had enough of entert-t-taining myself in the cryo tank.” 

Steve pops his head out of the kitchen, all wide-eyed. Buck snorts. “J-jesus, honey, I'm just fuckin' with you. I wasn't actually awake in there.”

“Good,” Steve says. Then he disappears again. Approximately 53 seconds later he returns with a glass full of something pink. He gives it to Buck. He says, “It's, uh. It's a vegan strawberry milkshake. Did you know they have vegan ice cream now? I tried a few kinds that were pretty weird, but this one's really great, almost like the real thing. So, uh, you can have it without your stomach hurting.”

Cognition error.

“You made this. For me.”

“Well, yeah. I wanted to surprise you. Is it ok?”

There's a straw in it.

Buck gives it a try. Then he tries some more. Then he drinks from the side of the glass, because the straw is impeding mission efficiency. 

He says, “ _Positive_.”

Why is Steve so fucking _nice_ to him?

Steve says, “Can I, I mean, I just, I really wanted to – I mean, if you don't mind – ”

“What.”

Steve goes down on his knees.

Buck says, “Are you p-proposing, champ?”

Steve says, “I'm proposing to suck your dick,” and turns the color of a raw steak.

Cognition error.

Buck drinks some more of his milkshake.

Reassessment of relevant intelligence. “You. Made me a milkshake. And now. You want to know if I would mind. If you sucked my dick.”

“That's about it.”

Buck says, “I. I don't know. I don't know if I can.”

Steve nods like he isn't surprised at all. Then he pulls out a goddamn package from under the couch. 

“You've been f-fucking _planning this_ ,” Buck says.

Steve says, “I am the Star Spangled Man with the –”

“Just give me my d-damn present, punk.”

Steve hands him the package. Buck opens it.

Cognition error.

“What the hell is this stuff?”

“Well,” Steve says. “The thing that you're holding is called a rope.”

Buck glares at him. “Th-thanks, smartass. I recognize fuckin' handcuffs, too. Are we k-kidnapping someone?”

Steve is blushing even harder. Buck would bet he's pink down to his tits by now.

Not the world's worst thing to think about.

“It's for you to use on me, Buck. So you don't have to be, um, you know. Uncomfortable. You can run the show. Just fix me however you want me and we'll figure it out from there.”

Bucky pulls a weird looking thing out of the box. “What's th- _this_ thing for?”

Steve swallows. “It's, uh. It's called a ring gag. Because I remembered what you said about, uh, biting that guy's dick off, and I figured that's the kinda thing that really gets into your head, so if you want I can just wear that and you'll know that you're, uh. Safe. From me.”

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” Buck says. 

They stare at each other. 

Steve says, “Sorry. I shouldn't have – never mind.”

“N-no, champ. I was just surprised. Let's give it a fuckin' try.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, sure. Why the fuck n-n-n-n-not?” He winces. “Sorry. The s-stammer. Not very s-s-s-sexy.”

Steve ducks his head a little. Now even his ears are pink. “I, uh, wouldn't say that.”

Cognition error.

“You l- _like_ it?”

Steve looks up at him. Those big fucking blue eyes. “It just sounds like _you_.” Then he says, “I, uh, I really do want to – you know.” He can't manage saying _suck your dick_ out loud again, the big palooka. “But I guess I should warn you that I'm not gonna know what the heck I'm doing.”

Bucky blinks. “Really? You ain't ever – ok. That's ok, champ. You know what you like, right?”

“I mean, in life in general I have a few preferences. You know, Katherine Hepburn over Rita Hayworth. Pencil over charcoal. A Colt over a Sig Sauer. Every other pie over apple.” 

“You crazy goddamn asshole,” Buck says. “You're still a fucking v-v-v- _virgin_ , aren't you?”

Steve shrugs. 

“You mean you ain't b-been with _anyone_ since that time you went down on Carter?”

Steve glares at him. “I still can't believe you got me to tell you that.”

“You t-tell me everything, slugger, you can't help yourself. How the fuck did I n-n-not know that you're a virgin?”

“Its not as if I'm shouting it from the rooftops,” Steve says. “People will just think what they want to think about me anyway.”

Yeah, of fucking course. Face like that, body like that. Of _course_ he's a real hit with the ladies. No one else knows him like Buck does. No one else knows how bad he always wanted someone to look at him and _see_ him.

No one has touched him. No one has been with him. 

_Positive._

Bucky grins. “I'm _Christopher goddamn Columbus_.”

“I'd prefer to think of you as the Iroquois Nation,” Steve says, then adjusts himself through his pants. “I really want to kiss you right now, Buck. Can I kiss you?”

“You c-c- _can_ ,” Buck says. “I d-don't know if you _may_.” He feels a tic coming on and lets it happen, jerks his head hard a couple of times. 

Steve doesn't seem to mind. “Thanks, sister Mary Bridget,” he says, and gets up onto the couch to kiss a little at Buck's throat. “ _May_ I kiss you?”

“Sure,” Buck says. “Wait. Take your shirt off.”

Steve does. Buck has to take a little time to enjoy it. Steve says, “Aw, c'mon, Buck, cut that out.”

“C-can't,” Buck says. “You're like the fuckin' S-sistine chapel. Put your hands behind your b-back for me.”

Steve obeys. Bucky cuffs him, because he loves the hell out of Steve, but he doesn't think he can keep it up if there's part of his brain constantly keeping track of where the target's hands are. Steve makes a little noise that goes right to Buck's dick, then dives for Bucky's mouth. They neck for a while. With no tongue, because Steve's a goddamn champ and never has to be told twice if something makes Buck want to puke. Steve's balance is a little off from his hands behind cuffed behind him, so Buck supports him with his hands on his ribs, then slides them up higher to rub his metal thumb over Steve's nipple. Steve hisses a little. Then he says, “Can you, uh, take your jeans off?”

This whole handcuffs thing is more logistically complicated than he had planned on.

He stands up, strips, makes a little production out of it for Steve. He isn't sure whether or not the sight of him pulling all of his concealed weapons out of their hiding places and lining them up on the coffee table is sexy. Steve doesn't seem to have a problem with it, at least. Buck says, “Have you been s-s-s- _saving yourself_ for me, sweetheart?”

Steve says, “Is it sexier if I say yes or no?” 

Buck stares at him.

Steve says, “Bert-face isn't actually all that attractive.”

Buck stares harder.

Steve says, “I thought you were dead. I was _grieving_ you, Buck, I wasn't _saving myself_. I just didn't – I didn't want anyone else.”

Oh.

 _Highly_ negative. 

_Oh, Stevie._

He sits down on the couch, bare-assed and stupid-looking. He says, “I'm sorry. For l-leaving you.”

“I let you fall,” Steve says. He looks like he wants to give Bucky a hug, but he can't, because he's handcuffed.

This mission is becoming increasingly logistically complicated. Uncuffing Steve for the purposes of cuddling at this point would potentially indicate a mission-abort, which would be the most negative possible outcome of this scenario. Buck hasn't had his dick sucked since 1976; he's not about to fuck this up. He has to think of something to fix this situation. Steve's eyes are getting all shiny. Tears are not sexy unless you're some kind of pervert, which Buck isn't. Crazier than a cat in a bathtub, but a man of simple fucking tastes (Ass, tits, whiskey, Luckies, and a willing mouth on his dick. Simple.).

“I l-l-love you,” he says. “I love you so _fucking_ much.”

Steve hits the floor like it's an air-raid drill. 

J.B. Barnes is a goddamn genius. And Christ, Steve's kissing at the inside of his thighs like his garbage dump of a body is something _nice_ and _sweet_ , like it's something to fucking _linger_ over. Buck spreads his legs a little wider, by way of making a suggestion. Steve mumbles, “Hold your horses, I like it down here. Let me take my time.”

“What, y-you enjoy the delicate perfume of my balls?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, and presses his face into the crease between Buck's thigh and his groin. Buck thinks he might pass the hell out. Steve says, “Love how you smell, Buck.” Then he says, “Can I put my mouth on you?”

Buck says, “ _Nguh_.”

It definitely says in the Smithsonian that J. B. Barnes was real slick, a real charmer. Good work keeping that up, champ. Then again, that sorry motherfucker never had Captain America's mouth on his dick, and they didn't have vegan strawberry milkshakes during the Great Goddamn Depression. From what he can remember of it, they mostly had powdered milk and piss-poor attitudes, though most of the attitude might've been Steve.

Buck thinks he came out all right on this end, if you gloss over the eighty years of flaming shit in between.

“I'm not doing anything without permission,” Steve says. Buck can't actually tell which of Steve's two main strengths is being displayed here: being the best guy on earth, or being a real pain in the ass. 

“Fuckin' _please_ ,” Buck says. 

Steve sniggers. Pain in the ass it is. Then he says, “Just, uh, tell me if I'm doing it wrong, ok?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Stop sucking my d-dick, Captain America, your technique ain't up to snuff – oh, J-jesus f-f-f-f-f- _fucking_ Christ, Stevie, _fuck, Stevie_ – ”

It's good. Oh, Jesus, it's good. He can't. He can't be fucking smart about it. It ain't the technique – there isn't much of that – it's that it's _Steve_ , and Buck's spent a long fucking time jerking off to thoughts of this. And Steve's looking up at him through his eyelashes, and moaning a little, and wriggling around like he wants to touch himself but can't because of the cuffs, and fuck, _fuck_ – 

“S-sweetheart,” Buck says, “Honey, you gotta – I'm _gonna_ , sweetheart – ”

Steve pulls back a little. “Good,” he says, all pink and glassy-eyed. “I want it, want it in my mouth – ”

Buck comes all over Steve's neck.

There's a pause.

Then they both bust up laughing.

Buck takes the cuffs off of Steve, who jerks off while Buck kisses on him and talks a lot of really filthy bullshit. Then they sponge themselves down and drag their tired old asses to bed. Steve climbs in with a book, and Buck does a double-take when he realizes what it is. “Christ, Stevie, I know you g-got some weird shit going on in that head of yours, but sucking my dick and then bringing a B-b- _bible_ to bed is fucked up even for you.”

“Shut up,” Steve says. “It ain't like that. I just.” He grabs Buck's hand. The metal one. Buck can never figure out what the hell he gets out of holding that thing like it's an actual part of a real person. “When you were missing it was really hard to pray. I was – I was real mad at God, Buck. For bringing you to me and then taking you away again. And I tried reading the Bible to find some – some comfort, I guess. Or some kind of explanation. And I found this. And I remembered how that night when you choked me you were quoting from the Book of Job, and how you helped me memorize that when we were kids, so really it was kinda my fault that you had that stuff in your head. No, come on, don't argue, I'm not finished yet. I just wanted to read this to you. So you could have something better in your head. Because it made me feel better, and maybe it will make you feel better too, especially since you wrote me that note, and I can't – I can't put words together about that kinda thing like you can, Buck. I get really dumb about it. So, uh. Can I? Read it to you?”

This big goddamn meatball. Buck wouldn't be able to say no even if he wanted to.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he says. “G-go ahead.”

Steve clears his throat, and starts to read, that big deep voice of his soft and gentle on the words.

“By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not.  
I will rise now, and go about the city in the streets, and in the broad ways I will seek him whom my soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not. The watchmen that go about the city found me: to whom I said, Saw ye him whom my soul loveth? It was but a little that I passed from them, but I found him whom my soul loveth: I held him, and would not let him go.”

*****

Steve wakes up and Bucky's there.

He's _there_. Warm and soft and wriggling around a little, making just-woke-up sounds. Alive and not in the hospital and not on drugs and not trying to strangle Steve (yet). Just _here_.

Steve's kinda happy about it, is all.

Buck says, “Stop staring at me.”

“How do you know I'm staring at you?”

“You're always s-staring at me, champ, don't gotta be Sherlock Holmes to notice.”

Steve rubs the back of Bucky's neck for him. “You hungry yet?”

“N-nope,” Buck says, and then grunts a couple of times. Steve wishes that particular tic hadn't decided to make a reappearance, but there doesn't seem to be any logic to how they come and go. Buck's on some sort of anti-anxiety medication now that Tony's medical team say might help to reduce the tics and panic attacks, but Steve's not expecting too much. 

Buck's on a whole lot of medication, now. It does something weird to Steve's gut whenever he sees Buck swallowing all of those pills, even though he knows they're supposed to help him.

“You gotta eat something to take your meds, ace.” 

“Ugh.”

“Yeah, I know. Bean milkshake?” 

“Sure.” 

“Coffee?”

“Don't be c-cute, it's too fuckin' early.”

“Taking that as a yes,” Steve says, and ambles out into the kitchen to get one of those awful soy things and put the coffee on. He heads into the living room to wait for the coffee, and takes a minute to stare at his new canvas. He's doing a painting of Bruce, now, and it's taking longer than he would have hoped, what with the lion in it. He never got a lot of practice with drawing wild animals other than pigeons and Bucky.

Maybe he and Buck could go to the zoo. He could sketch, and Buck could learn weird animal facts. That might be nice. Like a real date or something.

He blushes, then switches on the TV to the news just distract himself and to make sure that no national monuments are being sucked up by tractor beams or something. Then he registers what the announcer is saying and freezes. “Analysis of the two photos seems to confirm that the New-York based vigilante who has become known locally as the Revelator is the man who is currently wanted for multiple acts of terrorism in Washington D.C., as well as the attempted assasination of Captain Steve Rogers, also known as Captain America. Many are now calling for Captain Rogers to be placed into protective custody while the manhunt continues – ”

“You know,” Steve tells the television, “my morning had been going pretty well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one chapter left (in case I can't get all of my loose ends tied up: in which case, two)!
> 
> Reference reference:
> 
> 1\. Mother Jones is an American magazine that covers a lot of workers' rights/social justice topics. In Tony's picture Steve was getting upset over Howard Zinn's "A People's History of the United States," which is why Steve doesn't want Bucky to compare himself to Columbus.
> 
> 2\. The Bear Jew: https://youtu.be/pVEFCDP4KiM
> 
> Tell me that ain't apt.
> 
> 3\. Steve reads to Bucky from the Song of Solomon, which is also where the chapter title comes from.
> 
> 4\. First person to guess which saint Bruce is wins a prize. :)


	9. Sinnerman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky lets it all hang out. Steve makes Sam an offer he can't refuse. Sam and Bucky discuss a cat. The creature stretches its legs a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I lied. It's two chapters. And you're getting them both at once!
> 
> Warning for this one: the usual, and discussion of/reference to theoretical suicide and sexual assault.

Bucky seems to be taking the whole house-arrest thing pretty well, all things considered.

It's a little strange, actually. He's gone from being obsessed with his freedom and jumping out the window at the least provocation to seeming perfectly content to never leave the apartment again. He spends a lot of time with the kids downstairs, watching movies and helping with their math homework and playing with that video game machine that he bought and now uses to murder lots of space aliens (Mikey and Lily announced last week that John wasn't allowed to play something called _Halo_ with them anymore, so Buck promptly invited Sam over to play instead. Steve refuses to get involved.). Buck insists that Steve reads Harry Potter to the kids every night and walks them to and from their bus stop every day before and after school. He makes chicken soup when Mikey catches a cold. He figures out how to use Amazon, memorizes Steve's credit card number, and orders himself stuff. Steve gets a kick out of seeing him open the packages, how excited he gets. “Look at this, champ! We _never_ could've afforded n-nice shit like this b-back home.”

It's nothing weird, the stuff he buys. Nothing too expensive or frivolous. A warm quilt for their bed with a cheerful blue and yellow pattern all over it (Steve asked him how he picked the colors and Buck just got all shy and refused to answer). A copper-bottomed pot like the one Buck's ma used to have. A new powder-pink hoodie with an extra-soft lining. He wears it almost all the time, padding silently around the apartment with his hair hanging in his face. He keeps giving Steve these weird sidelong glances when he wears it, like he's daring him to say something about it. Finally, one day he comes up to Steve while he's reading on the couch.

“Steve.”

“Mm?”

“Do you like. My sweater?”

“Your hoodie?” Steve blinks. “Yeah, I like it a lot.”

Buck wrinkles his forehead. “Why.”

Steve considers for a second. This seems like the sort of question that has right and wrong answers. “It definitely isn't something the Winter Soldier would wear.”

Buck plops down onto the couch, then curls up and puts his head in Steve's lap. Right answer, then. Today's a talking-is-hard kinda day, which usually means that Buck spends most of the time with this focused, tense expression on his face, like just getting through basic interactions with other people is a little too much. Now he's smiling, though. “No. No pink. In Hydra.” Then he says, “Do I look. Dangerous?”

“No,” says Steve. He thinks he's catching on. “You look really cute.”

“ _Cute_ ,” Buck says happily. “N-non-lethal?”

“ _Definitely_ non-lethal,” Steve tells him. He runs his fingers through Bucky's hair. “Look at you. You're just a big pussycat, huh? Who'd ever be scared of you?”

Buck hides his face in Steve's lap and makes a happy little sound. Steve keeps playing with his hair. “Good thing you got me around to take care of all of the violent stuff for you, huh? That's not your scene at all.”

“Y-yes,” Buck says into his thigh. “I'm very gentle. Usually. Sometimes.”

“A lot of the time,” Steve agrees. 

“I d-don't like. Hurting people,” Buck says softly.

“I know, buddy.”

“That was bullshit,” Buck says, even more softly. “It f-f-feels good. When I make the shot. When I complete the mission. It _feels_ good. Killing people. And I'm. _Real fucking good at it_. But I don't. I don't want to like it.”

“I know,” Steve says again.

“Am I. Evil?”

“I don't think so,” Steve says. “I think you're good.”

“Are you. Sure?”

“As sure as I am about anything.”

Bucky's whole body goes kind of boneless, and he grunts a few times. Steve's starting to figure out what triggers the tics, and it turns out that sometimes they're a good sign: if Buck's been tense or anxious they get kinda bottled up, and then once he's relaxed they all come out at once. Steve gives him a little kiss to let him know that he's good even when his brain makes him do weird stuff. Buck says, “You know. What's good. What's right. You always know.”

“I'm just doing my best,” Steve says. “Just like everyone else.”

“No,” Buck says, “N- _not_ everyone else. They do what's easy. You do what's g- _good_.” He turns his face up to look at Steve. “Tell me,” he says. “T-tell me. Again.”

Steve swallows. “You're good, Buck. You're good and kind and gentle and _sweet_ , and you should wear your pink sweater all you want.”

“And c-cute.”

“Yeah, you're cute, too.” 

“What else.”

Steve considers. “Beautiful?”

Bucky makes another pleased noise and hides his face again. Steve rubs his back. “Good and kind and sweet and gentle and _beautiful_.”

Buck likes that all right.

 

A couple of days after that Steve brings a bag of apples home from a farmer's market he happened to walk through. An hour later he goes into the kitchen and sees Buck sitting on the floor with his head half stuck in the bag. "Buck?" he says. "You ok?"

Bucky looks up at him, all unfocused and dreamy, and for a terrible second Steve thinks that he might have relapsed. Then he says, "Did the s-s-serum make your sense of smell real good?"

"Uh," Steve says. "A little, yeah. I mean, I smell better than normal people." Then he grins. "I mean, I guess that's not for me to say."

"Ya moron," Buck says affectionately. "You smell ok, and I can say that with authority because my sense of smell's real good. I mean, _real_ good. Used to have to t-t-t-track injured targets with it sometimes."

"A bloodhound," Steve says, feeling kind of sick. "They made you into – sorry." 

Bucky shrugs. "S'true. I am what I fuckin' am, and they m-made me to be an animal." He smiles. "I feel real dumb, sometimes, you know? I just, I wasn't allowed to be d-d-distracted by it. So I just. I ignored it. I didn't know it d-didn't have to be a weapon. And then I walked in here just now, and _Jesus_. I'm getting the whole fuckin' orchard."

Steve starts bringing him little presents after that. A sack full of oranges, a little bundle of jasmine flowers, a vanilla bean, a cedar box, some kaffir lime leaves. Some of the smells are just pure pleasure: Steve keeps catching Buck sniffing at the cedar box, his face calm and beautiful. The oranges, though, send him rocketing into Christmas 1932, and the kaffir lime leaves trigger some sort of episode; he spends a few hours screaming in a language Steve has never heard before and attacking Steve whenever he tries to approach. Afterwards he refuses to say anything about it other than “It smelled like Cambodia,” which is why Thai takeout has been banned from their apartment until further notice. 

One day Steve gets back from an Avengers PR event and nearly gets taken to the ground by 200 pounds of incredibly excited super assassin. "Stevie! Stevie, you ain't gonna b-believe it, watch this, watch me -- " he picks up a book from the coffee table and starts reading aloud. “Harry Potter was a highly unusual boy in many ways. For one thing, he hated the summer holidays more than any  
other time of year. For another, he really wanted to do his homework but was forced to do it in secret, in the dead of night. And he also happened to be a wizard.”

It takes Steve a second to get it, but then it clicks and he gives a whoop. "You can read that? Buck, you can read!" He hugs Buck right up off of his feet, and Buck kisses him like it's finally V-day, and they end up on the floor with their hands down each other's pants. It takes them both a while to even notice that Steve is touching Buck and it's ok, he's not panicking or leaving his body or throwing up. Then Buck comes and starts to cry.

Steve hasn't seen Bucky cry for real a single time so far in this century, but now he's flat out sobbing, his whole body shaking with it. It's completely silent, which Steve finds weird until he realizes with a sick twist in his gut that Hydra and the Red Room would obviously have demanded perfect silence from their weapon. The ability to cry normally would have been taken from him a long time ago. "W-w-why," he manages. "M-m-malfunction --"

"You're not malfunctioning, Buck," Steve says. "You're just crying. It's ok. Go on and cry."

Buck leans his head against Steve's shoulder and blubs miserably for a while longer. Steve rubs his back with one hand. "You used to cry all the time, remember, buddy? Before the war. You went to see Gone with the Wind about five times and just cried your eyes out over it."

"I d-did?"

"Yeah. It used to make me nuts when we went to the pictures together because everyone would always assume I was the one sniffing all through the second act until they got a good look at you with your eyes all red." He threads his fingers gently through Buck's hair, scratches a little at his scalp. "You were never embarrassed about it. Always said it was a sign of intelligence. Used to drive every guy in the neighborhood half crazy, because the girls all loved it as long as it came from you, even if they'd laugh at any other guy for it. Oh, that Bucky Barnes, such a romantic, he took me to see Gone With The Wind and cried at the end, so sensitive, such a gentleman --"

Buck is snickering a little now, which was Steve's goal all along. Steve just looks at him for a bit. Sometimes Buck's face kinda sneaks up on him a little. He's been looking at it his whole life, but then the light will hit it the right way and it'll knock the breath right out of him. “I still can't believe I even got a chance with you.”

Buck snorts. “You're Captain America.”

“Who the hell is Captain America?” Steve says.

Buck bursts into tears again.

 

“Now that he's off the heroin, and getting more regular food and rest, his brain is probably starting to repair itself,” Bruce says over the phone. “So you should expect some odd behavior. The withdrawal can have emotional side effects too. He may be depressed and anxious for a few months.”

“Isn't there anything I can do?” Steve says. “Because, I mean, he's been crying for two days. It doesn't seem very normal.”

“Sasha isn't very normal,” Bruce says, which is perfectly reasonable and not at all what Steve wants to hear. “And he has a lot of stuff to process. Honestly, he really should be in some sort of inpatient program, or at least getting some kind of therapy. Have you talked to Sam about it?”

Steve calls Sam.

“Oh, I get it, now you just call me when there's a Sasha emergency,” Sam says. “What happened to bros before hos, Steve?”

“Who exactly is the ho in this scenario?” Steve says. “It can't be Bucky, we've been bros since I was six. Hey, want to get burgers tonight?”

“Aw, Steve,” Sam says. “You know I can't say no to you, even though I feel like you just indirectly called me a ho.”

Bucky wanders past with a glass of water. His eyes are nearly swollen shut from all of the crying, and his voice comes out really raspy. “T-t-technically, I was a ho for about th-three months in the seventies,” he says. Then he blows his nose in one of Steve's handkerchiefs. 

Sam and Steve meet at a burger place near Sam's work. Steve orders the biggest burger they have, a chocolate malt, extra fries, and a side salad, because even though his body maintains itself on its own he doesn't want to be intentionally _rude_ to it. Sam orders a burger without a bun. Steve stares at him.

“Why.”

“Whoa, please never channel Sasha like that again, that was eerie as hell. And I'm doing this paleo thing, have you heard of it?”

“Yes,” Steve says. “I hate it. I hate everything about it.”

“Not all of us get our fabulous bodies from weird German scientists electrocuting our nipples, Steve,” Sam says. “It takes  
_work_ for me to look this good.”

“Technically it was Howard Stark who electrocuted my nipples,” Steve says. “Honestly, sometimes I think that he got some kinda thrill out of it. And I give the diet two weeks.”

“Oh, ok, I see how it's going to be,” Sam says. “They warned me about people like you on the internet forums.”

“Sam,” Steve says, “I've watched you eating pie for breakfast. I've eaten your mother's cooking. When I said two weeks I was being generous.”

Their food arrives. Sam stares at Steve's plates.

“Fuck it,” he says, and steals a handful of french fries. “So what's up with Sasha? When you say crying all the time, do you mean frequently, or literally _all day_?”

“Uh,” Steve says. “I guess he takes breaks sometimes. But not often. He cried himself to sleep last night. It was awful.”

“Have you tried – wait for it, wait for it – talking to him about it?”

“Cute,” Steve says. “And yeah, I asked him if there was anything I could do to help. He said no and then cried in the bathtub for two hours. Bruce says that he's probably depressed, but _I'm_ depressed, and I don't cry and listen to sad drug addict music all day.”

“Wait, what's sad drug addict music?”

“He listened to this one song about codeine about twenty times in a row last week,” Steve says, “But today it's been nothing but Nina Simone.”

“Oh shit,” Sam says. “You know it's serious when a guy busts out the Nina. Do you think he'd talk to me? You know how you guys do that stoic thing with each other. And good job on the whole admitting you're depressed thing! Thought any more about therapy?”

“I can't think about it _more_ when I never started thinking about it in the first place,” Steve says. “And Buck might talk to you, he really likes you. He always wants to know where you are.”

Sam frowns. “What?”

“Oh. He, uh, always wants to know where people are if he likes them. I think it's for tactical reasons, in case you're attacked by Hydra or something. If he knows where you are all the time he can get to you more quickly.”

“Aw, that's sweet!” Sam says. “I feel safer already. So you want me to stop by? He still can't leave the apartment, right?” 

“Yeah, that'd be great,” Steve says. “Saturday afternoon? There's usually a break in the crying at around three. The living room windows face west, so he likes to find a sunny spot on the floor to lie in for about an hour.”

“I hate to break this to you,” Sam says, “But your boyfriend is _incredibly_ weird.”

Steve drinks some of his chocolate malt. It's pretty great. “He isn't my boyfriend. And this isn't even new, he used to follow the sunny patch all through the apartment back when we lived together before the war. I mean, back then he brought a cushion and a pulp magazine, and now he just lies there like a wet towel, but it's pretty close.”

“Wait, hold up, are we seriously still going with this _he's not my boyfriend_ thing? I _know_ you two are sleeping together.”

“I just don't like the word, is all,” Steve says. “I don't see why I should have to call him something stupid when it isn't anyone's damn business if we sleep together anyhow. _Boyfriend_ sounds like I asked him to the Sadie Hawkins dance or something, and _partner_ sounds like we've opened up a law firm. Hey, have you ever met Daredevil, by the way? His name's Matt. We've been texting.”

“Oh, man, have I heard about _that_. He knows Claire, and apparently he was all giggly the other night because you sent him a selfie of you holding a Captain America action figure taped to a Daredevil action figure.”

“I found them like that at the store! It was a 'local New York heroes value pack,' I thought it was pretty funny. I wasn't just taping them together because I'm a creep. Your girlfriend is friends with Daredevil?”

“I wouldn't call it friends, exactly. She says she found him in a dumpster and now he just keeps coming around, like an alley cat.” He narrows his eyes. “Is Daredevil a good looking guy?”

“Not as good looking as you,” Steve says firmly. Matt's cute and all, but he's no Sam. Steve's ranking of the handsomest guys he knows puts Bucky in the lead and Sam in a close second, and in that particular ranking the judge is really biased in favor of the guy he gets to kiss on. Also, Sam is really fun to compliment; he always looks so happy about it.

“There was actually something else I needed to talk to you about,” Steve says. “What with how the media's gotten hold of this whole Revelator thing, I've been thinking that if all of the fuss doesn't die down soon it might be a good idea for me and Buck and the kids to get out of town for a while.”

“Steve,” Sam says, “If I had known that it would take an international manhunt to get you to take a damn vacation I would have orchestrated one six months ago. So what, you need me to water your plants or something?”

“Something like that,” Steve says. “How would you feel about being Captain America?”

Same chokes on a stolen french fry. 

“See, once you're Captain America you should try not to steal other guys' french fries and then nearly choke to death on them,” Steve says. “It'd be really bad for cap's image.”

“Steve, this is a joke, right?” Sam says. His eyes are watering. “You're _joking_.”

“Nope,” Steve says. “Captain America is _important_. I mean, I haven't been back that long, I can't just take him away again. Not that Falcon isn't great, but people grew up with Cap. He makes them feel safe. I can teach you some tricks with the shield that you don't need to be a supersoldier for; me and Natasha worked them out once when it was raining outside. Some more hand-to-hand combat training wouldn't hurt either. Weren't you just saying you're working on your body? I'll bet I could get you pretty bulked up.”

“You're not electrocuting my nipples,” Sam says. “You're _superhuman_ , Steve, I'm a _regular human_ , I can't just _be you_.”

“You can _fly_ ,” Steve says. “I can't fly. Flying Captain America, that's great! And, I mean, the only guy alive who could successfully pretend to be me in combat for more than about ten seconds and doesn't live in Asgard is crying on my living room floor right now. You're the best guy for the job, Sam. If you don't want to do it I'll ask Natasha, but I'm a little worried that she'll just laugh at me.”

“I'll do it,” Sam says, then gets this look on his face like he wants to take it back. “I mean, if I have to. Forget everything I ever said to you about you needing to take a vacation.” 

“I don't think I will,” Steve says, and pours some more of his french fries onto Sam's plate.

*****

Sam goes over to Supersoldier Central on Saturday with the largest box of donuts that he has personally ever seen, because if you're going to attempt to subtly figure out why the deadliest man on earth has spent the past week crying like a baby you should probably give that man some donuts first. Also, a lovely face and body lotion set, because they're going to have a little chat about self-care. 

Steve has already made coffee by the time that Sam gets there, which is excellent. Steve pours them each a cup and they stand in the kitchen eating donuts and arguing about Game of Thrones. Steve hates it, because he's a big cranky fun-ruiner. “It's so _mean_ ,” Steve says. “People in movies used to be better than they are in real life, and now they're worse. I helped to liberate some concentration camps and I feel more positive about human nature than the guy who writes that stuff does. It's _horrible_.”

“ _Horribly entertaining_ ,” Sam says. 

Bucky comes stalking in then (he's still working on having walks other than "terrifying murder prowl"), slaps Steve upside the back of the head (which is basically PDA, for the two of them) steals a sip of his coffee, grimaces, and pours about half a bowl of sugar into it. 

"Hi, Sam," he says, and almost looks Sam in the eye. Then he sits down on the kitchen counter with Steve's coffee. He's barefoot and shirtless, and Sam gives him a sneaky little look over. He's looking really good, actually: in better shape than Sam's ever seen him, even though the crazy amount of scarring all over him (and the fact that the metal thing is his _actual arm_ attached to his _actual soft human body_ ) always manages to shock Sam when he first sees it. Steve's been really feeding him up over the past couple of weeks. And he's turned two weeks of sitting on his ass and eating handcrafted Captain America pancakes into the outline of something that really wants to turn itself into a six pack, because the universe is cruel and doesn't care about the struggles of one mortal, handsome man hanging around these superpowered freaks.

"There's a whole pot, Buck," Steve says. "I still don't see why you always have to ruin mine." But he just pours himself a new mug, then hands Bucky a donut.

"You look great, Sasha," Sam says. "Have you gained more weight?"

"He gained two pounds this week," Steve says. Bucky kicks his feet a little, all pleased with himself, and takes a bite of donut to gum on. He talks with his mouth full, because apparently being freakishly gentlemanly really is a Steve thing and not just a born-before-prohibition thing.

"Doc says I got ten more kilos to g-go before I ain't underweight anymore. I think this guy won't leave me alone until I'm fat as a d-d-d-damn pig, though." He has a quick flurry of tics, does that head-jerk thing and then grunts softly a few times. It doesn't seem to faze him though, which is good to see: his getting all worked up over them upsets Steve too, and the two of them end up just feeding off of each other's bad vibes. Sometimes Sam just wants to wrap them up in blankets and put them in a dimly lit room with a tiny waterfall and whale noises playing in the background. Bruce can go in there too. Hell, Sam wouldn't mind spending some time in there himself. He should talk to Stark about installing one in the tower. It'll be like the crying room at church, but for PTSD-addled superheroes.

"It wouldn't kill you to do a little better than _not clinically underweight_ ,” Steve says, in that special voice that he reserves for Bucky Barnes, Peggy Carter, and little girls wearing Captain America Halloween costumes. "And you look fine when you're a little chunky, anyhow."

Sam raises his eyebrows. "How do you know that?"

Bucky does Bert-face. Steve grins. "Buck kind of spread out before he shot up when he was fourteen."

"I was a real little porker for a while there," Bucky says. "And don't you feed me any lines about how I l-l-looked ok, hotshot, I didn't notice you giving me any of those b-burning looks of yours before I hit my growth spurt." Sasha's memory is kind of all over the place, but one of its more fun quirks is how that half-scrambled brain of his turns into a damn steel trap the instant the memory in question involves Steve Rogers being ninety pounds of hilarious tragedy. The dude couldn't remember his own sisters' names, but get him onto Steve Rogers and it's all “Hey, Stevie, remember that time when we were ten and you puked in class and got it all over your shirt and the only spare shirt around belonged to a kid in the second grade, and it fit you b-better than yours did? Hey, champ, remember when you spilled a whole bottle of ink on G-g-gertie Carmichel and you tried to wipe it off with your hands and the ink didn't c-c-come off for two weeks?”

James Buchanan Barnes is a national treasure, and Sam considers it his duty as an American to get him back into fighting shape, for the sake of truth, justice, and a whole lotta giggles.

"That's because I hadn't hit puberty before you hit your growth spurt." Steve says."But I'm pretty sure that the first time you took your shirt off in front of me and you had muscles on your chest I saw the actual face of god." He's grinning, joking around about this stuff like it's nothing at all, which almost makes up for how insufferable the two of them are with their damn epic romance. 

Bucky finishes his donut, then says, out of nowhere, “What's AIDS?”

Shit.

Sam tries to keep his voice neutral. “Its a disease, buddy. It's mostly spread through sex and needle sharing. Why do you ask?”

“My f-friend George came here for lunch the other day,” Sasha says.

Steve supplies, “They knew each other in the seventies. They ran into each other when Buck was trying to dry out the other day, and George took care of him for a few hours.” He's doing that voice again: sounds like George is on the approved list. 

“I had,” Sasha says, “another friend. His name was Kev. George said that he died. In 1992. F-from the AIDS thing. George said that a lot of his friends died then. He said he went to a f-f-funeral almost every weekend.” He looks so confused, his face screwed up like a little kid who's upset about something. Steve makes a soft, hurt little sound, and reaches out to grab his hand. “Why?” Sasha says. “Why did that happen?”

“There's not really a why, buddy,” Sam says. “AIDS kind of came out of nowhere. A lot of folks died really quickly.”

“Is it because they were queer?” Sasha says. Steve makes that sound again. “I saw that on the internet. That it was a punishment from God.” He's looking at Steve, like Steve's the one who knows what God wants. 

“ _No_ ,” Steve says. “That's not how God works.” And wow, Sam envies that certainty. He hasn't felt that sure about God since he was about six years old. From anyone else it would seem naive: from Steve it just sounds convincing, like maybe he's got the big guy's number in his cell phone.

Sasha relaxes a little, but he still looks pretty miserable. “Kev was good,” he says. “He n-never hurt anyone. He was n- _nice_ to me, and I was a fucked-up junkie hooker he picked up in the back of a fucking b-b-bar. Now he's d-d- _dead_ , and I'm still fuckin' _here_.” And then he's crying. Sam wasn't sure exactly how he had expected the Winter Soldier would cry, but it definitely wasn't like this. He cries hard, his shoulders hunched up and shaking, but he's completely, eerily silent. From the miserable look on Steve's face it seems like Sam isn't the only one who's come up with horrible, horrible explanations for why anyone would cry like that.

“Hey,” Sam says. “Steve says that you've been upset lately. Is it because you've been thinking about Kev?”

Sasha glances quickly at Steve, then says, “I d-d-don't know. I don't know why.”

Sam says, “Steve, do you want to take a walk for a minute?”

Steve basically teleports out of there. Sasha Bert-faces so hard that Sam is legitimately concerned that his face will freeze that way. “You two. Set me up. You want to. _Head shrink me_.”

He changes, when Steve's out of the room. Nothing extreme; this isn't a Jekyll and Hyde situation. But Bucky Barnes, as presented to Steve Rogers on a good day, is as different from the guy Sam has gotten to know as Sasha as Falcon is from Sam-the-VA-counselor. Sasha is more guarded than Bucky. He smiles less, and the smile is different; more like an artist's interpretation of a grin than the real thing. Bucky is warm and charming: Sasha can be charming too, but in an offbeat kind of way, like he's still figuring out the ropes of human interaction and is feeling it out based on a combination of his instincts, scraps of memory, and stuff that he sees on TV. Bucky flirts, Sasha demands. Bucky's the wingman, Sasha's the lone gunman. Both sides of him sometimes slip up and reveal something else, something raw and wounded and childlike and vulnerable.

“I want to talk to you, buddy. Because Steve's my friend, and he's worried about you. And because _you're_ my friend, and _I'm_ worried about you.”

“I'm your f-friend?” says the Winter Soldier, kind of perking up a little. Sam almost starts crying himself. It's like those videos on youtube of people rescuing fighting dogs who start out all skinny and mean and growly and end up all fat and happy and rolling around licking people. He just wants to be _loved_ , man, it's not his fault that he's all scarred up and scary with a missing front leg and doggie anxiety, and do they make ThunderShirts for humans? Because Sam needs to buy a set in supersoldier sizes.

“Yeah,” Sam says, “Don't _you_ think we're friends? I mean, you seemed like you were having a pretty good time destroying me at Halo the other day.”

Sasha shows his teeth in something that you could call a smile, if you were the optimistic type. He's just about as good at first-person shooters as you would expect, which is _so damn good_ that Mikey and Lily refuse to let him play with them anymore. Steve just refuses to play in general. People tend to assume that he's terrible with technology, but that isn't actually true: he picks up on new stuff pretty quickly, he just doesn't _like_ a lot of it, and he really doesn't like violent video games (he'll occasionally play something soothing and Japanese for about a half an hour before he gets antsy). He's also instituted some kind of dad-rule where Mikey and Lily are only allowed to play for a maximum of one hour on weekdays and two hours on weekends before they have to find _something productive to do with their time_ , which is another piece of evidence that Steve Rogers is actually just Sam's mom controlling a giant white man with telekenisis. “Yeah,” Sasha says. “I guess that was p-pretty fun.”

“Good,” Sam says. “Listen, Sasha, what's going on?”

“I d-d-d-on't _know_ ,” Sasha says, in a tone of voice that would be scary as hell if Sam wasn't pretty sure it was less “I've got murder on my mind” and more “I'm anxious and frustrated and miss my big blond security blanket when he leaves me alone for longer than thirty seconds.” Sasha gives an exasperated little huff. “I j-just keep fucking _crying_. If I knew what was wrong I would f-f-f- _fix_ it.”

“You're not broken,” Sam says. “You don't need to be fixed. This isn't a malfunction.”

Sasha sneers at him. Sam tries another approach. “Are you getting enough sleep?”

“I sleep sometimes.”

“But not much?”

“Pal, I'm a mass murderer with a fuckin' s-smack problem. Every time I close my eyes I see the innocent f-fucking people they made me kill, and the shit they d-d- _did_ to me, and the only thing that turns it off is smack and I _can't fucking do that anymore_. Jesus fucking Christ, I'd kill another few hundred people for a hit right now if it would make it fucking _stop_ , I'm fucking glad I'm under house arrest because the thought of l-l-leaving the fucking building makes me want to _shit_ myself half the time – ” He breaks off, and stares at the floor. 

Ok. Whoa. Sam takes a breath, then says, “So you're feeling a lot of stuff that you weren't feeling before, because the smack kept you all nice and numb. And now you're getting hit with eighty years of bad shit all at once. Sounds like a decent reason to cry. Along with, you know, your brain not knowing what to do with feelings because of the whole _chair_ thing.”

Sasha just stares at him for a second. Or, you know, at the air right next to him. “I d-don't _deserve_ to be _sad_.”

“What exactly do you think you deserve?”

He shrugs one shoulder, all nonchalant. “B-bullet to the head?” Then, “I won't actually _do_ it. I promised Steve. Just w-what I deserve.”

“Inaccurate,” Sam says.

Sasha blinks. “What?”

“ _Inaccurate_. Listen, I like you and all, but I can't just sit here and listen to you trash-talking my friend Sasha that way.”

Sasha Bert-faces, and says, “Cognition error.”

He hasn't done that in a while: Sam isn't sure whether that was an actual backslide or Sasha's just being a brat. He chooses to ignore it, and says, “I brought you a present!” He hands Sasha the lotion set. “Have you been using the bubbles I gave you?”

“I used them. Twice. S-steve put them in.”

“Did you like them?”

“Y-y-yes.” Aw, he's looking all shy about it.

“So why not use them all the time?”

His eyebrows pull together. “N-n-not n-necessary to function.”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “That's the _point_. Listen, Sasha, you know that I was pararescue, right? And I watched my partner get shot down, and I was really messed up about it for a long time, and I'm still kind of messed up about it? You know what got me through my first few months back? A truckload of therapy, and a bigger truckload of overpriced cologne and fancy-ass body lotion. I own like twenty bottles of cologne – you can have some, by the way, if you want any – and ten different kinds of body butter. You want to know why?”

“I f-figure you're gonna tell me either way.”

“Don't sass me, Barnes. First, you can't have Falcon flying all over the damn place with ashy elbows, what would my mother say? And second, sometimes when you feel like a piece of garbage, or an alien from another planet, or more like a weapon than a real person, you have to be nice to yourself to remember how to feel human again. It's like taking care of a pet. You like cats, right? If you had a cat I _know_ you would be buying it catnip and cat toys and fancy all-meat cat food and some kind of crazy deluxe cat bed. You'd be petting it all the time, and brushing its fur out every day so it was all fluffy and everything, right? Even if you were feeling like shit you'd take care of the cat, because that's just what you have to do when you have responsibility for an innocent animal that can't take care of itself.”

“I'm the c-cat?”

“Yeah, you're the cat.”

“I should do n-nice things. For the cat.”

“You got it.”

“Can you t-t-touch me?”

Sasha seems to recognize the _whoa_ in Sam's expression, because he rephrases. “I meant. If I'm the cat. I can have. A hug?”

Because he isn't the actual sociopath who would say no to that, Sam gives him a hug, a nice long one. Sasha kind of purrs a little and hugs back. He's not a good hugger, not like Steve. He's bony and awkward and the metal arm thing is _weird_. But after a second he relaxes a little, and then sniffs at Sam's neck, because he is _literally_ a giant, neurotic housecat with extra-pointy claws and a lot of separation anxiety. “You _do_ smell n-n-nice.” He does his head-jerk tic a couple of times into Sam's shoulder, then lets him go.

“Listen, I'm not messing around here. Want me to bring my cologne collection around some time? I know you're into smelling everything right now.”

“Y-y- _yes_ ,” Sasha says. Then he gives this sleepy little smile and says, “Why the f-fuck can't you be a little queer, huh?”

 _Bucky is in the building, ladies and gentlemen_. It's actually pretty unnerving how liquid his personality is, how he seems like he reinvents himself from second to second. Sam sits back a little. “Who says I'm not a little queer? I went to college, I had an experimental phase, I made some bad decisions about a long-haired white dude from the dance department who didn't deserve me. Don't you go making assumptions about me, Sasha.”

Sasha does that terrifying kind-of-smile thing again. “Long haired white guys, huh?”

“Dude, you are dating _Captain America_ , who is one of my _best friends_.” 

“Hey, that w-wasn't a no. Does that mean we can neck a little?”

Ok, so, Sam really hasn't put his mouth onto a dude in about a decade, but if he _was_ going to put his mouth onto a dude, it would probably be a Sasha-looking dude. Still, this is weird. He crosses his arms across his chest. “Yeah, ok, sure. Maybe if you can do a good job taking care of the cat until New Year I'll be so damn proud of you that I'll be moved to start making out with you when the ball drops.”

“ _Unclear mission parameters_ ,” says Sasha, all grim and intense. “Define 'take care of.'”

Sam is really, really going to regret this.

 

Steve comes back about ten minutes later, looking all serious and worried, and Bucky slinks over to rub up on Steve and re-mark him with his scent or whatever is going on over there. “Hey, buddy,” Steve says, sounding the same combination of completely charmed and incredibly weirded out that Sam usually feels around Sasha. “Feeling better?”

“Y-yeah,” Sasha says. “S-sam says that if I take care of the c-c-cat until New Year he'll neck with me.”

Steve's eyes go really wide, and he turns to look at Sam. “I can explain,” Sam says.

“I'm gonna need a clearer mission briefing,” Steve says. “Where's the cat? Can I help take care of it?”

“Wait,” Sam says. “You're cool with this?”

Steve blushes a little and looks shifty for a second, then grins. “I mean, Bucky necks with Captain America all the time already, so I don't see what there is for me to argue with here.”

Sam really does not know where he finds the strength to deal with these people.

****

The creature goes out sometimes at night, just to stretch its legs a little.

He's careful about it. Discreet. Things are different, now. He has people to protect. He has a self, maybe. 

Sometimes.

Steve went to work today. Nothing too major, just a small group of those AIM weirdos making trouble. Steve and Natasha had it cleaned up in minutes. They're both fine. Bucky checked Steve's whole body for injuries. He _knows_ he's fine. But Steve came home looking tired and satisfied and smelling like gunpowder and blood, and that sent the creature to itching. 

The creature presses its lips to Steve's forehead and slips carefully out of the window.

He's at home in the dark. He's spent a long time in it. The dark gives him an advantage.

He dresses as a civilian. He moves from roof to roof. It's a quiet night. Peaceful.

He hears a woman scream.

The man attacking her is young, handsome, well dressed. He looks like his haircut cost more than a year's rent in Bucky's first apartment. He looks like no one's ever had to teach him how to take care of the cat. 

The creature drops down from a roof and lands on the midtown fucker. It straddles his back where he's laid out on the ground and grabs that stupid midtown haircut in its fist and pulls so that the guy's chest lifts right up into the air. The woman sprints for the street. The creature shakes the guy's head like a dog with a rope in its mouth. Ready to play. “What the fuck do you think _you're_ doing, midtown?”

The creature notices, distantly, that its dick is hard. The guy is wailing, struggling, and the friction doesn't do anything to help the situation. A back corner of the creature's brain provides a few images of what it could do to a helpless piece of midtown ass right now. Bucky tells it to fuck right off. He says, “Jesus fuckin' Christ, stop _screaming_. _I_ ain't about to rape anyone, _I_ ain't an ambulatory piece of shit in a thousand-buck suit and a stupid haircut.” He pulls harder at the haircut, forcing midtown fuck's spine into a painful arch. The creature figures it has about five minutes before the cops show up. It needs to make this the Reader's Digest version of its usually much more impressive crime-fighting events. It's a little disappointing, to be real fuckin' honest. It takes a lot of pride in its work.

It is, after all, in the business of spreading the Word.

“I'd tell you to apologize to the lady, but she ain't here no more,” it says. “So you can apologize to me instead. Say, 'I'm sorry, Mr. Revelator sir. I'll never do it again.'”

The guy says it. The creature grins. “Fuckin' A, you won't. Because if you try _that_ again, then I'll have to do _this_ again,” it says, and slams the guy's face into the cement.

The creature is walking home, hands in its pockets. It's a pretty warm night, and in the dark and in its civvies no one will ever guess what he is. Still, it's pretty fuckin' ironic when a kid comes at him from a dark doorway, flashes a knife, and says, “Yo, give me your fucking wallet.”

 _Adolescent male, Caucasian, approximately 180 centimeters, 65 kilos. Close to zero threat._ Embarrassing, really.

The creature smiles.

"You got a mother, kid?"

The kid jerks his chin up. "You saying something about my mom?"

"I'm saying, kid, that I don't have a mother. I'm saying that I was here before you were born, and before your mother was, and before her mother. I'm saying that I'm the thing you dream about when you wake up screaming and can't remember why. I'm saying that I am the fog rolling in, kid, that I am the fucking creep down your spine, that I am the darker part of a _dark fucking night_ , and that if you fuck with me I will make you _motherless_ , kid, I will make you _fatherless_ , I will grind up your brains and your bones and your blood, I will _drink up your very fucking name_ , kid, and the earth won't remember it. I will _unmake_ you, kid, and if you don't want that to happen, you had _best fucking run._ "

The kid says, "You're fucking crazy, man! Give me your fucking wallet!"

The creature takes the kid's knife from him and jams it hilt-deep into the brick wall of the nearest building. It pulls its own knife and flips it.

It says, "you're real cute, huh? Fuck, just look at you, look how _sweet_ you are. I could just _eat you up_."

It shows its teeth.

The kid runs.

The creature sticks its hands back in its pockets and keeps walking. 

The creature slips back into its apartment through the living room window. It has to get out of its boots on its own, which is negative as shit. It breathes through it like Wilsonsamuelthomas taught it to do, then just lies on the bathroom floor for a minute, panting, before it gets up and finishes getting changed. Then it crawls back into bed. Steve stirs a little. “Buck? You awake?”

It snuggles up against Steve's side. _Captain fucking America, about two meters tall, built like a goddamn wrecking ball. High threat. No threat. Safe. Baby boy._ “Had to take a piss. Go back to sleep, honey.” 

“Mm,” Steve says, already drifting off again. “Love you.”

“Yeah,” says the creature. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference reference:
> 
> 1\. The title of this chapter is one of the Nina Simone songs that Bucky listens to whilst lying on the floor like a wet towel. 
> 
> 2\. The song Steve mentioned Bucky listening to over and over is "Codeine Crazy" by Future.


	10. From the Cradle 2 the Grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrations are held. A new year begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy wow, that's it! That's done! It's over! A million, billion thanks to incredibly helpful and patient beta reader [Vaysh](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaysh/pseuds/Vaysh), and to all of the fantastic people who have recced, commented, left kudos, and created fanworks for this story.

Steve wakes up with two spies on his bed.

Weirder things have definitely happened to him.

He says, "Are we having a socialist revolution?"

"We're having breakfast," Natasha says. She's wearing blue flannel pajamas. They look very comfortable. He wonders if she rode the subway here like that. At least she wouldn't be the weirdest thing on the train. "Sasha is cooking."

"Oh, that's nice," Steve says. "What are you making, hotshot?"

"Omelets," Buck says. "And a tofu scramble for me, because my life is real shitty. Natashka brought the tofu.”

"Sounds like you two have got everything sorted out. What did you have to go and wake me up for?"

"We missed you, obviously," Natasha says.

Buck says, "It d-definitely isn't because I told Natashenka about how cute you look in your p-panties and she wanted to see for herself."

Steve blushes. "I don't have _panties_."

Buck gives Natasha a look. " _Sure_ you don't."

"They're called _boxer briefs_. They were on sale in the _men's section_. Natasha, tell him that boxer briefs are for men."

"Sasha showed me pictures of the underwear American girls wore in the thirties," she says. "He has a point."

"Come on, honey," Buck says. "Show us the g-goods."

"I'm not getting out of this bed," Steve says.

"You'll have to take a p-piss eventually," Buck says. “Come on, sweetheart, I'm on f-fuckin' house arrest here, gimme something to live for.”

Steve glares at him. “Well, I can't get outta bed with the two of you sitting on me, can I?”

They get off of the bed. Steve stands up. Natasha says, “Wow, he _does_ look cute in his panties. Hold still, Steve.”

“Huh?” Steve says. 

Natasha takes a picture of him with her phone. “For the file.”

“Hey,” Buck says. “You have a f-file on him too?”

“I have a file on everyone,” Natasha says. “But Steve's is mostly pictures of him with his shirt off.”

Bucky says, “I got a a couple of pictures of him from before the serum offa Ghostface. I told him it was for trying to g-g-get my memories back.”

Natasha cocks her head. “And what's it really for?”

Buck makes a filthy gesture with his right hand. Natasha smiles. “You haven't gotten _any less disgusting_ , Sashka.”

“You're _both_ disgusting,” Steve says. “Natasha, you're a wolf. Buck, you're a real pervert. Who jerks off to me from before the serum?”

“Me,” Buck says, while Natasha says, “Internet people.”

“Wait,” Steve says. “What?”

“There's a small but vocal contingent of your fan base that prefers you that way,” Natasha says. “The words 'delicate' and 'ethereal' get thrown around a lot.”

“I'm never leaving this apartment again,” Steve says. 

“Good,” Buck says. “We can b-be under house arrest together. If I gotta sit around all day jerkin' off I might as well be able to s-stare at you in your panties while I'm doing it.”

“ _A potato farm in Siberia, Barnes_ ,” Steve says.

Natasha and Bucky snicker. Steve hates them both equally.

Buck really does make omelets, and he'd apparently put the coffee on before he came to harass Steve, which does a little to improve Steve's mood. Steve puts a record on – The Supremes, something Sam gave to him after he said that he liked The Four Tops – and sits on the couch drinking his coffee and listening to Bucky and Natasha chattering in Russian in the kitchen. They're laughing a lot, and Steve isn't sure – he only knows the Russian that he memorized for Sasha-wrangling purposes, so it's limited to stuff like “I'm your friend” and “please don't shoot” – but it sounds like they keep finishing each other's sentences. Steve decides that he's going to think it's nice that they've been reunited. Quiet, gnawing jealousy is _definitely_ not the direction he wants to go in here.

The kids come clattering upstairs at around eleven, after the adults have already finished eating. “Hi John! Hi Steve! Hi, Ms. Widow!” Mikey says. He's bouncing on the balls of his feet and grinning like he's just won a raffle.

Lily waves a little, looking shy. “Hi, Natasha.”

“Hi, Lily,” Natasha says, with this big smile that Steve doesn't see from her very often. “Have you been practicing with the garrote?”

“Jesus Christ,” Buck says. “Social services w-won't let me out alive.”

“Foster daddy!” says Mikey, who is by now literally jumping up and down with excitement. “I got you a present! _Here_!” He shoves a little mesh bag into Buck's hand. 

Buck blinks down at it. “Thanks, slugger. Uh, w-what is it?”

“John, it's _Hannukah gelt_. It's the first day of _Hannukah_. And it's _chocolate_ , you can like _eat_ it and everything.”

Buck's face sort of crumples, and he sweeps Mikey up into a hug, careful to keep the little bag of chocolate coins out of harm's way. “Thanks, champ,” he says. He sounds a little choked up. “That's real sweet of you. I l-like it a lot.”

Steve feels like a jerk. “Wow, Buck, I'm sorry. I didn't even know that it was Hannukah already.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Buck says. “Shit, did I _ruin Thanksgiving_?”

Steve shrugs. “I wasn't really all that concerned about it anyway. It's not like I roasted a turkey last year.”

“We gotta do Christmas up real nice for you,” Buck says. 

“Hannukah first,” says Steve. “Want to do something? Celebrate?”

“I d-don't know how,” Bucky says. “My ma couldn't t-teach us much of that stuff with my dad around.” He pauses. “She made these p-p-potato things? Can't remember what they were called. Not like his drunk Irish ass could get too mad about _that_.”

“We can look a recipe up online,” Steve says.

Buck smiles really wide, then ducks his head a little like he doesn't know what to do with himself.

Mikey says, “Does this mean we get presents twice?”

“No,” Steve and Bucky say together.

“When I was your age I got an orange for Christmas,” Steve tells them. “And I was _grateful_.”

Bucky bursts out laughing. “L-l-look at their fuckin' faces!” The kids are wearing matching expressions of confused horror.

Natasha is looking between Steve and Buck. “Is he lying, Sasha? It's surprisingly difficult to tell sometimes.”

“I c-c-can't remember,” Buck said. “Did you really only get an orange one year, champ?”

Steve grins and shakes his head. “I think you gave me a couple of new drawing pencils too. And, uh, ma knitted me a pair of socks out of yarn from that awful brown sweater that I'd finally outgrown, do you remember that, Buck? I had to wear that horrible thing for years because I never got any bigger. But yeah, Christmas 1935. It wasn't so bad, no one else was getting anything nice either. And _you_ were there. Your dad was in one of his moods, looking to start a fight, so you came and stayed with me so that the girls could have a decent Christmas. You went to Prospect Park and pulled a branch off of a pine tree for us to put in the living room, remember? You said you almost got arrested. My ma nearly died laughing when she saw it. You helped her bake, and I made ornaments for the branch out of an old catalog.”

“Yeah,” Buck says, slowly, as if he's tasting the word. “I don't remember the b-branch. But I r-remember watching you make ornaments. I remember thinking how c-c-cute you looked when you were concentrating like that.” He blinks, then looks startled. “I just remembered something else.”

Steve smiles. “Yeah? What is it?” 

“T-tell you later,” he says. “Hey, last call for fuckin' omelet orders, I ain't keeping this kitchen open all day.” 

Once the kids have eaten and clattered back downstairs, Steve pulls Natasha into the living room while Buck cleans up in the kitchen. “It's really nice of you to come by,” he says. “I know it's gotta be weird for you, being around us.”

She shrugs a little. “You're my friend, Steve. And he's the closest thing that I have to family.”

Steve nods, and clears his throat. “I, uh, I've got something for you.”

He brings her into the spare bedroom, where he has all of his art stuff set up now that the living room's seeing more use. When she sees her painting she smiles, big and happy and open, and looks at it for a long time. “It's yours,” he says. “I mean, if you want it.”

“I do,” she says. “Thank you.” Then she looks at Bruce's painting and her smile gets even bigger. The style of this one is a little funny, a little surreal. It's Bruce in his lab in Stark Tower, in his normal lab coat with his curls all rumpled. He's sitting at his desk and writing in a giant, medieval looking tome where his computer keyboard should be. Beside him is a human skull resting on top of a centrifuge. Nearby, taking up most of the remaining space in the lab, is an enormous lion. “Saint Jerome,” she reads. “Doctor of the church. Patron against anger.” She laughs a little. “Oh, it's perfect! Tony will love it.”

Steve smiles. “I was hoping that Bruce wouldn't mind it either. Think Tony will like his?”

Steve painted Tony like a rich renaissance patron of art, all heroic pose and dramatic lighting. He's wearing one of his ridiculous suits in his workshop, with his robots at his feet where there would normally be a pair of hunting dogs. There's a holographic globe floating above his outstretched right hand. _Saint Albert the Great, the legend at the bottom says. Expert in the properties of matter, natural law, metaphysics, and friendship. Patron of those who study science._

Natasha just smiles and shakes her head. “Is it hard for you?” she says. “Being so good? It seems like it comes really naturally.”

Steve frowns, and then blushes a little. “I don't get it,” he says. “Did I just do something weird?”

“No,” she says. “Not for you.” Then she grins at him. “So when are you going on that honeymoon?”

Steve blinks. It had seemed like a pretty dark joke, the first time around, but now when he thinks about it he can see Bucky there with him. They could do it, if they wanted. Go somewhere where the ground is covered in flowers. Go somewhere where they could rest, for a while. 

He says, “Aren't you getting a little ahead of yourself? I haven't even gotten my hope chest all put together yet.”

She punches him, so he figures that she thought that was pretty funny too.

Steve and Buck walk her to the subway together, and as soon as they're back home Buck hauls Steve to bed.

“Hey,” Steve says. “What's up?” He doesn't want to assume that this is a sex thing: Buck sometimes goes a few days without being interested in that kind of stuff, but he's _always_ interested in climbing all over Steve like a huge murderous cat. Steve doesn't mind: he likes cuddling and he can always jerk off. At this point he's a real expert in it.

Buck climbs on top of him and fits his head under Steve's chin. “Remembered why I said no to you. I mean, about us f-fooling around, when we were kids.”

“Oh,” Steve says. “Wow.” He's not sure whether he can't breathe right now because he's panicking or because there's a whole lot of cybernetically enhanced guy on his chest. “You're kind of crushing me, buddy.”

Buck rolls off of him, then snugs up against his side. “Hey, pal. If we'd been s-screwing in the thirties, would you have started stepping out with Carter once you met her?”

“ _No_ ,” Steve says, offended. “Of course I wouldn't. I'd never step out on you.”

“Uh-huh,” Buck says. “You would've been real good to me. If we'd made it out of the war you would've wanted to s-settle down, huh? Gotten some little apartment together. You'd do your art, I'd work in a fuckin' garage or something. Just a coupla confirmed fuckin' bachelors.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Yeah. That sounds – wow. I mean, wouldn't you have liked that?” His throat is aching a little with how nice it sounds, the story that Buck is telling. It's easy to imagine. A small, sunny apartment, better than what they had before the war, nothing so fancy as what Steve's got now. Two bedrooms for the sake of appearances if the cops showed up and one double bed big enough to cram into together. Steve's easel in the front room. Buck coming home every night streaked with engine oil. Eating dinner at the automat. Letting Buck do him on the floor so the creaking bedsprings didn't give them away. Buck feeding stray cats on the fire escape. A nice, good, quiet little life. Something just big enough for the two of them.

“You would've hated it, sweetheart,” Buck says.

Steve shakes his head. “No. Lord, Buck, it's all I ever – ”

“Hiding all the time. Lying all the time. N-n-never having kids. Never getting your church wedding. You were gonna be a _senator_ , sweetheart. You were gonna change the world. I knew that when you were still l- _little_ , and after the serum, _shit_ , honey, I could see it already. General Rogers. Fuck, P-p- _president_ Rogers. You coulda done it, sweetheart, if you'd made it home. But not if you were stuck on some loudmouth queer from the old n-n-neighborhood. You woulda needed a cute wife, some cute fuckin' kids. You d- _deserved_ that, you deserved fuckin' _all_ of it, you deserved better than me fucking you up the ass every night in some dump in Red Hook. I was never meant for anything great, honey, but you fuckin' _were_ , and I wasn't gonna f-fuck that up.”

Steve, for once in his life, is practically speechless. He always knew that Buck could be really thickheaded sometimes, but the idea that Steve could want to throw over his best guy to chase a job with the US government is just _insulting_. Steve could punch him right in the teeth. “You jerk. You think you get to make that kinda decision for me?” He kisses Buck on the mouth, then kisses his other parts too: his cheeks, his throat, his nose, his ears, every last dumb bit of him. “You're all I needed. Just you. That's it. I would've been _happy_ in that dump in Red Hook, Buck. I would've _died_ happy in that dump in Red Hook. I never needed to be the damn president. All I needed was to feel like I was doing some good in the world, and maybe like at the end of the day I had someone to come home to. That's you, Buck. That's all you. You're the someone. You're the home. You're the place where I live. I don't need nothing else, Buck, not ever, so don't you dare try and put me out on the street again because you think you know better. I'm not as tough as you are. I don't know if I could take it.”

“I ain't so t-tough, slugger,” Buck says. His voice is sounding a little raspy. “I, uh. I never figured it was like that.”

“Well, it was, and it still is,” Steve says. “And I'll forgive you for not having picked up on it sooner so long as we're all clear on how the situation stands now, sergeant.” Then Steve closes his eyes and puts one arm around Buck and starts to fall asleep, because talking so much about his feelings wears him right out.

“Hey,” Buck says. “Speaking of f-f-family. There's something I think we gotta do.”

*****

OK, so like, no offense to Mikey's mom, who tried really hard to make Christmas special every year even though they were all poor and stuff, but this is the _best non-denominational holiday season ever._

So first, Mikey saved Hannukah by remembering about it like the best foster baby in the world and making John almost cry of happiness instead of crying of sadness like he was doing all the time for a while (which was the worst and only stopped when Falcon promised to make out with him, which is _totally_ unfair, because Mikey asked Sam if he would make out with _him_ if he started crying all the time and Sam was like _NO!!!!!!_ so that you could hear all of the exclamation points.). And then they made latkes, which is basically Jewish hash browns and is _amazing_ , especially if all you have to do is eat a million of them because John is super weird about letting you around hot oil, even though _I'm almost sixteen, I'm not a baby, I'm not going to actually fry myself to death, John._

Then a few days after the latke party John gathers them together in a top-secret no-Steve meeting and says, “S-steve. He _loves_ Christmas. He loves it a _lot_. But he won't want to make a fuss over it because he's a self-sacrificing asshole and never does nice shit for himself. So we gotta make a f-fuss over it for him, ok? And if he asks, it's all for y-y-you guys, to make up for you having had sh-shitty Christmases before.”

So Mikey and Lily are all like “Yes, doing nice Christmas for Steve!” and they all high five each other. Then John gets Sam to take Steve out for brunch and gives Mikey and Lily a bunch of cash and a list of stuff to buy, which goes like this:

 

POPCORN NOT THAT WEIRD SHIT IN THE BAG WITH BUTTER ON ALREADY THE REGULAR KIND JUST NORMAL FUCKING POPCORN ASK AN OLD PERSON TO HELP YOU FIND IT

COLORED PAPER

STRING

PASTE

CANDY CANES 

REALLY BIG CANDLE

SOCKS BIG ONES

 

So they go out and buy all of this stuff even though they're like _what? Why?_ about most of it. Except for they figure that SOCKS BIG ONES has to mean, like, _Christmas stockings_ , so they go all the way to the dollar store in the Bronx to buy those and also invite Huang Ayi to come to their house for Christmas, and she's all like _ugh why_ , but you can tell she's really _totally_ into it.

Then they go all the way back home with all of their weird old-people Christmas stuff and go upstairs and John is sitting there looking all pleased with himself and there's a _giant fucking tree in the living room_. Not even, like, a regular Christmas tree, it's an actual normal pine tree with its branches going all over the place, like he just went to the park and chopped a tree down and carried it home with him.

Mikey and Lily decide not to ask. 

So then John starts doing his weird old person Christmas thing, and it turns out that the popcorn is for popping (in a _pot_ on the _stove_ , Mikey didn't even know you could _do_ that) and then putting onto a string and hanging on the tree, and the colored construction paper is for making into a chain and then putting _that_ onto the tree. So they make, like, a decoration factory with Mikey stringing popcorn and Lily making the paper chain, and John smoking a million cigarettes with all of the windows wide open and using one of his combat knives to cut out paper strips, which is what's happening when Steve comes in and kind of leans back against the door and says, “ _Oh_.”

John wiggles his fingers at him. “Hey, ace. Get over here, you g-gotta make the fuckin' angel for the top.”

“Yeah, ok,” Steve says, with his voice all weird and squeaky. He walks over to the couch and looks down at John for a second like he's the best thing he's ever seen, then leans down and kisses him right on the mouth for the first time _ever_ in front of Mikey and Lily. Mikey screams a little in his heart, but not out loud, because they're like zoo animals or something and if you make loud sounds they might stop doing the cool thing that they're doing and go hide in the back of their habitat. “You realize this means war, right?” Steve says. “I gotta really pull out the stops for Passover.”

John's eyes get all big. “The four questions,” he says. “I _remember_ that. Ma did that with us, didn't she? ”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “She did. I was usually in charge of watching the door for your da to get back from the bar.” Then he kisses John again and says something in Irish, which is a new _thing_ that the two of them are doing and is _extremely_ sexy. 

John says something back, and then they just look at each other all intense and everything until Lily says, “ _Excuse me_ , aren't we supposed to be decorating?” because she hates love and happiness. 

So Steve puts on a Christmas record because he's the world's corniest nerd and Mikey loves him, and they all make decorations together and Steve and John only eye-fuck each other _sometimes_ , in a very _Christmassy_ way. 

After that Steve and John keep on, like, _escalating the festive hostilities_ , so Mikey and Lily get to make _gingerbread men_ , and go to the toy store and buy a million cool presents for Toys for Tots, and it takes them two weeks to figure out that John has been evilly playing Mikey and Lily and Steve against each other and telling Mikey and Lily that it's all for Steve and Steve that it's all for Mikey and Lily, but they don't even _care_.

John is also up to something else very sneaky right now, because he keeps on going off to Stark tower in cars that Iron Man sends for him and refusing to talk about what he's doing. Then finally it's Christmas Eve, and he holds another meeting with Mikey and Lily. “Midnight mass tonight,” he says. “No whining, no arguing. Steve's g-g-going and we're fuckin' going with him. Mikey, you're wearing a shirt that buttons and a fuckin' t-tie, just take one from Steve's closet when he's not paying attention. Lily, wear a dress, nothing too sexy, I'm t-trusting you both here to act like your foster dad ain't a junkie looney tune, show a little goddamn class. Meet me in the upstairs living room at ten. I've got some stuff I gotta do.”

So that night Mikey goes all mission impossible and steals Captain America's tie, and Lily puts together an outfit that won't make the baby Jesus cry, and once they're done getting ready they go up to Steve's living room. After a few minutes Steve comes out of the bedroom looking crazy handsome in his best suit and just kind of stares at them all confused for a second. “Where are you two headed all dressed up?”

“We're going to mass with you!” Mikey says.

Steve's face does that squinty thing that it does when he's having a feeling and doesn't know where to put it. Then the door opens and John walks in.

Mikey says, “ _Holy fucking shit_!”

This is crazy. This is _crazy_. Ok so first, he's wearing an amazing dark blue _three piece fucking suit_ , which was obviously made for him, so maybe that's what he's been doing in Stark tower. Second, he's _cut off all of his fucking hair_. Now it's short at the sides and a little longer on top, and he's got it kind of combed back away from his face, which he's actually shaved really carefully for once. Third, his metal hand isn't a metal hand anymore, it's just regular, he has a _regular fucking hand_ , and _that_ has to be what he was doing with Tony Stark, because _holy shit_. And altogether it's so crazy that it's actually a little scary, because this is almost the guy from the picture Steve showed them, the guy from that painting that Steve keeps hidden in his closet with the other two paintings of John being tortured and stuff (Mikey snooped and looked at them and then wished really, really badly that he hadn't. The same thing always happens when he finds out more about what happened to John. He'll get curious and ask Steve something like, “Did John really have to kill people?” or “Is he weird about being touched because he got, like, _bad touched_?” and Steve will either say “Yeah, slugger, he did,” or “You'll have to ask him about that,” and either way Mikey will regret asking.). Basically it's like looking at a super handsome ghost, like ghost Carey Grant or something. Steve seems like he thinks so too, because he makes this little sound like he's been punched in the stomach and says, "Buck?"

“Hey, sweetheart,” John says, and for the first time ever his weird accent makes sense, because Mikey can imagine them both now back where they belong, in that black-and-white movie country where everyone talks different and acts different and is different from now. Steve is staring at John with this _look_ on his face, a look like when you're on a long Greyhound ride getting away from your evil foster dad and you see a sign up ahead that says New York on it. Like maybe you've finally gotten to that place you've been hoping for where everything will finally be better.

“ _Buck_ ,” Steve says again.

John gives this slow, lazy smile that Mikey's never seen before. “Don't wear it out.”

Steve reaches out to touch him. His hand is shaking. He touches John's cheek, then his left hand. He frowns a little, and says, “Huh.”

“Yeah, pretty weird, huh? Ghostface says that N-natashka's got the same kinda thing for her face, so she can look like other people on missions and shit. It goes all the way up to my shoulder. C-can't wear it for, uh, _strenuous activity_ , though, shit'll overheat.” 

Steve swallows. “You cut your hair.”

“Yeah, uh, I th-thought it was too whaddya call it, d- _distinctive_ like it was. They're looking for a long-haired hobo with a metal arm, not some j-jerk with short hair in a fancy suit.” He runs his hand back over his hair and gives an embarrassed little grin. “Do I l-look like an asshole? D-d-didn't know what kinda haircut to ask for so I just lifted that picture of us out of your wallet and asked for that. Barber asked me if it was a picture of my grandad and if I was an actor or something. I said yeah, sure, _actor_ , and then I nearly stabbed him with his own fuckin' scissors when he came at me with them. I owe you eighty bucks, b-by the way.”

“ _You got an eighty dolla haircut_?” says Steve.

“I got a forty dolla haircut and then gave the guy a forty buck tip on account of my having almost stabbed him. So do I l-l-look like an asshole or what, you ain't said yet.”

“You don't look like an asshole,” Steve says. “You look like a hundred bucks.”

“Yeah, well, eighty percent of that is the haircut,” John says.

“A million bucks,” Steve says. “That's definitely less than one percent haircut.”

“Yeah, a little less, hotshot. Didn't the serum make you any better at m-m-math?”

“Yeah, what's a fifty percent increase offa nothin'?” Steve says.

“More nothin',” John says. “Like the fuckin' nothin' I'm getting from y-y-you right now. Where the fuck's my hug, slugger?

“I don't want to mess up your suit,” Steve says.

“Fuck the suit,” John says, and hugs Steve hard. Then he says, “Notice how quiet my arm is?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “It's not humming so loud.”

“Yep,” John says. “And it's a hell of a lot lighter, too. Takes some of the weight off of my back.”

“Wow,” Steve says, but Mikey doesn't think he's talking about the fake arm. He's just staring at John's face. “How'd I ever get a chance with you?” He sounds like he means it, like he's all amazed that John's cool with sleeping with Captain America. He puts his hand up to touch John's cheek. “You're just the best guy on earth.”

“Greatest show on earth, maybe,” John says, but he's blushing a little. “We're gonna be late for mass, sweetheart.”

 

Church is _totally_ weird.

So it's packed full of people all dressed up, and everyone knows Steve, and everyone is staring like crazy at them when they go in, all like _why is Captain America here with this stupid-handsome man and a black kid and an I-don't-know kid, is this a gay thing, is Captain America gay with a gay man and two gay-adopted babies???_ And the answer is _yes_ but Steve is all casual about it so everyone's face is like _maybe? This is his friend? And just two brown children he hangs out with sometimes?_ And also everything is weird because Steve is in his natural Catholic habitat and he's like doing the sign of the cross and kneeling in the aisle and shit and Mikey and Lily are just like _what_? So John hisses “ _Do what I do_ ,” which turns out to be kneeling when everyone kneels and sitting when everyone sits and standing when everyone stands and staring at your lap and looking serious while everyone else talks about believing in Jesus and an applesaucish church or something. At least the music's nice; there's a really good choir, and Steve sings along all happy and terrible, and Mikey and Lily sing too, because it's all Christmas songs and mostly they know the words. 

Then there's a bit when all of the Catholics go to the front for the wine and the cracker which is supposed to be Jesus' body, and all of the supportive not-Catholic foster babies and Jewish-ish gay assassins stay in their pew and watch them like it's the Discovery Channel. Most people let the priest put the cracker thing into their hands, but Steve and some of the other old people stick their tongues out and have the priest just feed it to them. Mikey leans into John and whispers, “ _That is so kinky._ ”

“T-tell me about it,” John whispers back. He's a really good whisperer; he can do it without even moving his mouth. “Ask Steve some time what f-f- _flagellation_ means.”

Then Steve comes back and smiles at them like he's going to cry, and then the choir starts singing Oh Holy Night, and he sings along for a few words before his voice cracks and his face crumples up, and Mikey and Lily just stare at each other like _ohmygodohmygodwhatdowedowhatdowedo_ , because _Captain America is so sad that he can't even sing Christmas songs_. Then someone else starts singing, someone with a really pretty, low, scratchy voice, and it takes Mikey a second to realize that it's John. And of _course_ it's John, because that's just how they are. If Steve can't sing then John does the singing for him, even if normally he saves most of his singing for when hes fucking up bad guys, because they take care of each other like it's the same as breathing, like maybe they'd _breathe_ for each other if they could. 

And like ok, sure, Falcon would probably say something about how they need better boundaries or something, but Mikey's just really sad because he's pretty sure no one will _ever_ love him the way that they love each other. Enough that it doesn't matter that John's a crazy junkie and Steve doesn't even drink except to be polite. Enough that it doesn't matter that Steve's a Catholic who keeps a Bible by his bed and John's maybe Jewish and definitely giving the silent treatment to God. Like maybe if you love someone with a love that big you just figure out all of the other stuff as it happens. So now Steve is crying, and John is singing for him, and they're sitting right there in church holding hands secretly in the pew and looking like they're ready to fight anyone who tries to make them stop, even if it's actually the baby Jesus flying down from heaven with a big stink-face on. And the song says, _fall on your knees_ , and John really does sound like an angel when he sings it, and Steve closes his eyes tight and prays.

When Mass is over they all walk home together. Steve and John walk separately in the church but start holding hands again once they're about a block away. Then Steve puts his arm around Lily, and John does the same thing to Mikey, and they block the whole sidewalk like horrible tourists, and it's _great_. And it doesn't even matter anyway, they're almost the only people in Queens right now who are walking down the street in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve. 

“Mikey,” Steve says, “when was the last time you saw your dad?”

“My dad is _right here_ ,” Mikey says. 

John kind of squeezes him a little. “We were thinking you m-might like to go visit him, slugger.”

“Uh, I'm all good,” Mikey says. Because, like, he barely even _knows_ his real dad, he's just some fuckup in an orange jumpsuit who couldn't just _not sell drugs_ for like a _minute_ when he had a _baby_.

“I'll bet _he_ isn't all good,” John says. “I'll bet he m-m-misses the shit outta you.”

“Well maybe he should have thought of that before he decided to _be a criminal_ ,” Mikey says.

“ _I'm_ a criminal,” John says. “I'm a v-v- _violent_ criminal. All your dad did was sell weed to a fuckin' cop. Which is d-d- _dumb_ , but not dumb enough that he deserved to get stuck in a cage for twenty years and never see his baby boy again. He was just a fuckin' kid when they put him in there, he never even got a chance to grow up and get less stupid.” 

Well, like, _fine_. Mikey makes an _ugh you're the worst_ noise. “Ok, _whatever_ , I'll go see him, but you have to come with me. I'm not _going to prison by myself_.”

“Actually, we thought that I could go with you,” Steve says. “We didn't think it would be a good idea for Buck to have to go through prison security. Or, you know, be in a prison.”

“I might p-panic and kill everyone!” John says, all cheerful about it. “Lily, do you – ”

“I actually _want_ to go see my abuela, you don't have to like _convince_ me,” Lily says. “Are you going to come with me too, Steve? You're all good with people with memory problems and everything.”

“Huh,” Steve says. “You're right. Everyone I've ever been in love with _does_ have symptoms of dementia.”

“M-mine's getting better,” John says. 

Steve gives him a little kiss. “I know, pal. We got the Babe Ruth of remembering stuff right here.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“Nope. I just think you're really great, is all.”

“Ugh,” Lily says, “You guys are the _worst_.”

*****

Buck loses a little time on the way back from mass. Not that much, he doesn't think – he's still in his suit now, so he couldn't have lost much more than half an hour, but it's still a little fucked up to be walking down the street and then suddenly end up in your bedroom with a hard-on and your guy's hand halfway down your shorts. Bucky jerks back. “What the _fuck_ – ”

Steve jumps backwards and puts his hands in the air, because he's a goddamn saint. “Buck, what's wrong?” 

“I, uh. Last thing I knew we were about to come outta mass.”

“Oh, Lord,” Steve says. He's gone all pale. “I didn't – Buck, I'm so sorry, you just seemed normal, I didn't know – ”

“Hey, no, slugger, it's ok. Just had to get my bearings straight. As you fuckin' were, soldier.”

Steve's always been real good at following orders that he wants to hear. He's back on Buck in a second flat, unwrapping him like a fucking present, kissing him on every new bit that he uncovers. Buck tries to keep shit on track, but it's a little hard to manage when you got a big stack of beautiful kissing on you like that. They're both stripped to the waist before he manages to say, “Hey, sweetheart, we still gotta put the p-p-presents and shit out for the kids.”

“Later,” Steve says.

“Nah, honey, you're gonna want to pass right out. Come on, it'll just take a minute.”

Steve makes a frustrated sound into Buck's neck, but he's a good boy and helps to set everything up. Then he drags Buck back into the bedroom even more worked up than he was before. Buck gives his ass a squeeze. “You're a pretty g-g-good little wife, huh? Looked real nice baking cookies with the kids and all of that the other day.”

Steve makes a little whining sound and goes for Buck's fly. Buck lets Steve finish undressing him, then does a little turn so Steve can get a good look at the new fake flesh sleeve on the arm. It looks good, real, like Buck's an actual person instead of a fuckin' cyborg freak. “Whaddya think?”

“It looks good, Buck. But, uh.” He swallows. “I'd rather have you naked.”

Cognition error. 

_Holy fuck, Steve._

Buck bites his bottom lip and tries to smile. “Want to see me peel my skin off like Red Skull?”

Steve just looks at him, so Buck sighs and starts to take the sleeve off. It's real creepy, seeing the metal come out from under it, but Steve doesn't seem like it bothers him. Once the sleeve is off and folded up on the dresser Buck turns to look at him again. “All good now?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Yeah, there you are.”

“It ain't me,” Buck says. “It's – it's fucking _them_. It's a _weapon_.”

“Yeah, well,” Steve says, and gestures toward his body. 

Buck shakes his head. “It ain't the same.”

“Sure it is,” Steve says, and grabs him by the metal wrist and brings the hand to his throat.

Buck jerks back. “What the fuck are you d-d- _doing_?”

“I'm Captain America,” Steve says. “What would Hydra want you to do to me with that hand?”

“Jesus, Steve – ”

“Do something different.”

Bucky swallows, then reaches out for him. Steve closes his eyes. He says, “I trust you.”

Buck touches him. He tries to make it nice, make it sweet. He traces a finger over Steve's cheekbone, then rubs his thumb over one of his nipples. The hand is cold, and Steve shivers. Buck jerks back. “J-Jesus, honey, the thing's like an ice cube – ”

“Yeah,” Steve says. He's gotten all flushed. “Could you – I mean, you always use your right hand – ”

Cognition error.

“You can't be f-fucking asking for what I think you're asking for, honey.”

Steve opens his eyes. “Please?”

_Well, if you fuckin' insist._

It's a little fucking nerve wracking, to be perfectly honest. He's afraid he'll malfunction and squeeze Steve's dick right off, or he'll pinch something real sensitive between the plates in his fingers. But Steve is watching and making these high, shocked little sounds, and he goes off faster than Buck even knew he _could_ , gasping out Bucky's name the whole time, and Buck looks at Steve's face and looks at how that metal hand is touching him and thinks it's ok. Nice. Maybe even kind of pretty, how the metal looks against the skin.

“It's like armor,” Steve says, mumbling into his shoulder. “We should decorate it. Filigree.”

“You've been hanging around G-ghostface too much,” Buck says. “I should just go sit around under an underpass and let the kids t-t-tag me.” It's a joke, but the idea sends a weird excited jolt through his body, and he blurts out, “Maybe I'll get a tattoo.”

“Mm,” Steve says. He's already hard again, the maniac. “Lots of them are really pretty, now.”

“I'd have to just lie there,” he says. “And let them fuckin' s-stick me.” But he'd get to pick it. Get whatever he wants. Cover himself with whatever he wants. “I could – Jesus. I could get p- _piercings_ and shit. I want to – would you hate it? If I d-did that kind of stuff?”

Steve's shaking his head, doing that thing where he looks at you like you're the only damn thing on earth worth paying attention to. “I'll help with the designs, if you want. If that'd make you happy.”

Buck kisses him. “Yeah, I guess you got a right to a little design input, what with you being my w-wife and all.”

Fuck, he's beautiful when he's embarrassed. “Could you – could you talk about that? About me being your – ” He can't get it out, poor kid.

Buck blinks, then grins. “You mean, like, it's right after the war, and I've just gotten off work at the garage, and I get home to the dump in Red Hook and you're fixing me dinner – ”

“Oh, Lord,” Steve says. He's sounding a little strangled.

“I like all of my pink stuff because I like feeling all s-soft and cute and harmless and shit,” Buck says, considering. “What's it all about for you, punk? It's embarrassing? You want to feel embarassed?”

“I'm your wife,” Steve says softly. “And all I gotta do is stay at home and cook and clean, and I know you're gonna come home every night and take care of me.” He swallows. “You ain't the only one that got made into a weapon, Buck. And I – I know I signed up for it, I _know_ that, it's just – ”

“Jesus, Steve,” Buck says. “You think I'm about to think less of you if I think maybe you regret it sometimes? I _know_ regret, sweetheart. I know about fucking _war_. You don't gotta pretend with me, sweetheart. You know that, right?” 

Steve just nods. He looks so fucking _tired_ , and Buck isn't about to let his best girl go on feeling like that. He gives Steve a smile. “Ok. It's right after the war, and you're fixing me dinner, and I come home just like I always d-do because I'm a really reliable guy, right?”

Steve blushes, then nods hard. “You're a really good husband. I never have to worry about where you are for a second.”

“Yeah, not like those g-g-girls you went to high school with who married drunks and gamblers,” Buck says. 

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Yeah, I'm so much luckier than those other girls.”

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” Buck says. “Christ, it should be _illegal_ for you to say that kinda shit. Ok, so what next, we have dinner? You serve it to me?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I serve you dinner and you tell me about your day, and I tell you about my day. Sometimes I leave stuff out, though.”

“Yeah? What aren't you telling me, baby?”

“I don't want you to think I'm a tramp.” He's grinding up against Buck's hip a little. “I just get real bored at home by myself sometimes.”

Buck's smiling so hard that his face hurts. Does that happen to normal people? 

Insufficient intelligence.

It probably doesn't happen to normal people. Then again, normal people don't get to touch Steve, which is real fuckin' negative for them. Maybe they just don't have a reason to smile so much.

“What are you t-trying to tell me, sweetheart?” Buck says. “You been touching yourself when I'm not there? You get wet thinking about me, sweetheart? Maybe p-p-play with your titties a little?”

Steve makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a groan, and breaks character right away like the amateur he fuckin' is. “ _Geez_ , Buck, how do you even _come up_ with that stuff?”

“C-can't really say, babydoll. It just comes to me. Jesus _fuck_ , honey, your fucking dick outta be illegal too, how fuckin' _sexy_ you are – ”

“That'd be real inconvenient for me,” Steve says. “I use it every – _oh_ – ” He whimpers a little and ruts into Buck's hand for a second, and Buck wants to die a little over how perfect he looks with his face all sweet and dumb and helpless like that. Baby boy just _thinks_ too much, is the problem: he needs Buck to get him out of his head, let that souped-up body of his take over for a while. Now he's making sweet little noises and pressing his face into Bucky's shoulder. “Buck – Bucky – want you to do me, I read about it, you can do it between my legs – ”

Holy _fuck_. Yeah, sure, that sounds pretty ok, sweetheart, except that part where my dick can't be counted on in a fuckin' crisis situation. He gives Steve a kiss, just so he knows he ain't being rejected. “I dunno, baby. Sounds like a lot of p-p-pressure for the classy dame. You know how shy she gets at a party.”

“Oh,” Steve says. “Sorry, I didn't – ”

“You wanna do me, honey?”

Cognition error.

 _When the fuck did I decide to say that_?

That ain't the kind of thing a guy's supposed to say, if he's not the punk, but Steve's kissing him like he doesn't care at all. “Yeah? You sure, Buck? We don't gotta if you don't want to.”

“Yeah, sure,” Buck says. “I th-think I remember liking it with the girl on top.”

Steve says, “Oh, _Jesus_ ,” which is some pretty hot language by Steve standards, and picks Buck right up off of his feet. Buck wraps his legs around Steve's waist and lets Steve carry him to the bed. Something in the back of his brain is bawling him out for letting himself be so vulnerable, so exposed – he has no way of watching his back, he could get shoved onto a spike or something – but he tells it to shut the fuck up. This is his punk, not Vlad the Impaler, and there ain't any spikes in this bedroom anyhow. It's still kind of a relief when they hit the bed and Buck can tell the voice _I told you so_. 

Shit goes pretty quickly from there. Buck slicks up the insides of his own thighs with Steve staring all slack-jawed, like he thinks watching a brain-damaged cyborg grease himself up is better than watching Rita Hayworth lick whipped cream off of Betty Grable's tits. Steve manhandles him a little, gets him settled all comfortable on his left side, then spoons up behind him. And _fuck_ , it feels good. It feels _good_ , the warm slick slide of Steve's dick between his thighs, Steve's big sure hand jerking him off slow and easy, Steve's voice in his ear, “You're perfect, you're _perfect_ , you feel so good, you're so beautiful.” 

The classy dame kinda decides to make an exit for a little while, for no fucking good reason that Buck can figure out, but Steve just keeps talking to him and kissing his shoulders and touching him like it doesn't matter at all, and eventually she gets back in line. Then Steve grabs Buck's wrist and drags his right hand down so he can feel the head of Steve's dick pressing through his thighs against his palm on every thrust, feel how they're all hot and slicked-up and joined together like that, and he comes, all fucking startled and amazed by it like they invented sex just now this very minute, and Steve says, “ _Yeah, just like that, so good, you're so good_ ,” and comes too.

So maybe Buck cries a little when he comes, who the fuck cares, so what, Stevie doesn't mind. He just wipes them both up a little with his shorts and then rests his head on Buck's chest. He's a damn miracle like this, soft and sleepy and sweet as can be. “You know, I was a little worried that it was going to be weird, at first. Being with a guy.”

“Is it?”

Steve rubs his thumb over Bucky's cheek. “The beard took some getting used to, I guess. I mean, the way people talk about it you'd think that women were made of cotton candy and men were made of boards with nails sticking out of them. But Peggy had those big muscles in her thighs, and your skin's really soft, just like Peg's.” He runs his hand over Buck's chest again. Buck knows that his skin's really soft almost everywhere he isn't scarred. Hydra took all of the hair off of his torso – he's pretty sure that was to save time before surgeries, not to make him all silky, but with Hydra you never really fuckin' know – and he used the lotion Sam gave him to make himself even softer. The thought that Steve's been touching him and thinking that he feels all smooth and soft like a dame is almost too much to fucking deal with: he has no idea what he _should_ think about it, but the dumb, animal part of him is pleased as shit. Steve's never been a particularly hairy guy – it was kind of a surprise to both of them when he started having to shave every day during the war – but he has a little bit on his chest and the regular amount everywhere else, and something about the contrast between them in that way makes Buck's toes curl. 

“I'm real glad you're here, Buck,” Steve says. “Sometimes I feel like since that plane went down I've had three years of breathing and seventy of missing you. Like I was missing you the whole time I was down there even if I can't remember it.” He huffs out a little laugh. “I guess that's pretty corny, huh?"

"Yeah," Buck says. "It's true, though. I was the same way. I m-m-missed you before I knew that I was an _I_." His brain decides that he needs to make a little hooting sound then, so he does it. Steve laughs. Buck punches him.

"You asshole, now you're l-l-laughing at my fuckin' tics?"

"I was just surprised, is all," Steve says. "It was kinda cute. That one's new, huh? Do you think we can have it instead of the grunting one?"

"What, you think you get to make requests now? Get the f-f-fuck outta here, this ain't a dance hall and I ain't the house band," Buck says, and then hoots again, which makes them both crack up.

Steve smooths one of those big paws of his over Buck's chest like he thinks he can gentle the tics right out of him. "Want me to rub your back?"

"Nah," Buck says. "You should try to go to sleep, it's real late."

Steve does fall asleep, and so does Buck, but he wakes up about an hour later to the sound of Steve sobbing out his name. " _Bucky, no, Bucky, please, please –_ "

Steve having nightmares is highly, _highly_ negative, but fortunately Buck has received mission-relevant training from Wilsonsamuelthomas on what to do when Steve's PTSD starts acting like it gets to call the shots around here. Buck strokes Steve's damp hair back from his forehead. "Wake up, honey. It's just a b-bad dream. Come on, baby, wake up for me. I g-g-gotcha, sweetheart, I'm right here."

Steve snaps awake, still all disoriented. "Buck, Bucky --" he starts patting Buck down, checking for injuries, and freezes when his hand hits Buck's left arm. "Your arm --"

"It's ok, honey," Buck says. "We're at home, we're at our place in Ridgewood, it's 2015. I'm f-f-fine, I ain't hurt. Tell me where we are, babydoll."

Steve pulls in a shaky breath. "Home," he says. "New York. I'm sorry, Buck, I didn't mean to wake you up --"

"Yeah, how fuckin' d-dare you not let me be the only fucked-up one in this bed," Buck says. "I might feel like we got some s-similar shit going on or something, maybe my guy really understands me on a fuckin' personal level, we can't fuckin' have _that_.” Steve manages a little smile. Buck strokes his hair some more. “Can you do f-f-five things that make you happy for me, champ?" Steve makes Buck do the five things all the time after he has nightmares, so payback only seems fair.

"You," Steve says right away. "You make me happy. Um. The Four Tops. Painting. Boxing with Lily. 25 cent wing night." His stomach growls.

"Hungry, huh?"

"A little."

"Ok. You stay here, I'll be right back."

Steve's sitting up in bed with the light switched on when Buck gets back. Buck sets up the little bed tray and puts Steve's snack onto it, then climbs back into bed. "Drink your milk before it gets cold."

Steve says, "Oh wow, thanks," and drinks his milk and eats his gingerbread men. Buck smiles and doesn't think about anything at all, just smells the good smells of Steve's warm sweaty body and sex and gingerbread and hot milk, and feels like the luckiest guy in the world. He knows that there are people on earth who aren't in love with Steve, but it always seems kind of questionable to him, like people who claim to never drink coffee or jerk off. It's in defiance of fucking nature, is what it is. He snugs up a little closer, and says, "When did you f-figure out you were queer?"

Steve puts the tray on the floor and lies down next to Buck. "That's easy. Spring of 1934, right before I turned 16. You had that part time job at the drug store, remember? You'd wanted to be a soda jerk but you ended up unloading delivery trucks and stacking stuff on shelves all day. On the first really hot day in June you came climbing up my fire escape in your undershirt with a coke to split. I remember just looking at you and thinking, _aw, heck, I'm in love with him_. You put your hand down my pants for the first time a couple of weeks after that, must've noticed me staring at you all pie-eyed all the time. How about you? When'd you know? Can you remember?"

"I think I always kinda knew," Buck says. He'd remembered this the other day and laughed over it for a while just by himself, so he's excited for Steve to laugh at it too. Sometimes stories that he thinks are funny just end up being weird or sad to other people, but he's pretty sure this is actually a funny one. "I remember being real little, maybe s-six? You were sick real bad with some awful shit, don't remember what, and my ma sat me down and said, you know, Stevie doesn't look like he's gonna m-make it. So I said _make what_ , and she had to tell me all about you being too small and having a bum t-ticker and all of that, and how it looked like maybe you were gonna go to heaven and b-b-be with your daddy. And I just looked at her and said, 'Well if he's up in heaven then how the heck am I supposed to marry him?' I was real offended about it, like who the hell does this guy think he is anyhow, trying to die and go to heaven when I haven't made him my t-t-tiny little bride yet."

Steve's laughing, which is real fuckin' positive. "What did your ma say?"

"She just thought it was me being little and thinking that marrying was what you did with your best friend, but that wasn't it, I wasn't dumb, I knew the score. I was gonna m-m-marry you, and once I'd made an honest woman outta you I was gonna k-k-kiss you on the mouth. That was the plan."

"You were real precocious, huh?" Steve says. He's smiling like a goddamn angel. "I can't say that if you had kissed me on the mouth when we were six I wouldn't have socked you in the nose."

"It wouldn't have d-d-dampened my ardor any," Buck says. "I knew you were a real spitfire from the get-go. Sometimes getting s-socked in the nose is just the price you gotta pay for love."

"Yeah, that's how I feel about getting shot three times," Steve says, and gives Buck a kiss so Buck knows he's just teasing. "I feel kinda bad, now. I was about a decade late to our romance. We coulda been kissing on the mouth for years."

"Just gotta m-make up for lost time now, I guess," Buck says, and yawns again. "Think you can f-f-fall back asleep, champ?"

"Yeah," Steve says, and they curl up together in one big sweaty ball because they're real codependent and they like it like that, and then they both pass the fuck out.

*****

Mikey makes it until like 7:30 in the morning before he's all up on Lily's bed like he's a weiner dog who needs to be let out to pee. “Lily! Lily, wake up, it's _Christmas_!”

“Ugh,” Lily says. “You're acting like we're some little white children in a car commercial.”

“You're the worst in the whole world, oh my God, why can't you even be nice during the _holiday season_? We have _dads_ now. I went upstairs and looked and _Santa totally came_.”

“We don't have dads, we have _completely illegal guardians_ ,” Lily says. Mikey pinches her, so she tries to pinch him back, but he goes running away, out of their apartment and up the stairs, screaming “ _John! Steve! Wake up_!” the entire way.

By the time Lily finally shuffles upstairs John and Steve and Mikey are all in the living room. John's wearing his fuzzy pink hoodie again. It makes him look all soft and warm and like hugging him would be really nice, so she just sort of sneaks over and gives him a little hug. “Hey, ace,” he says, and hugs her back. He _is_ soft, but he smells a little gross. “Merry Christmas.”

“Um, you too?” she says. “Even though you're kind of Jewish?”

“Jew-ish,” he says, and grins at her. 

She punches him, then says, “Did you _forget something_ this morning?”

“Aw, shit,” John says. “Do I s-stink? Steve, you're supposed to remind me about the deodorant thing.”

“Oh,” Steve says. “I forgot too.” 

“You guys are _nasty_ ,” Lily says, even though Steve usually smells ok when he forgets. According to Steve deodorant wasn't, like, a _thing_ back in the day, but that's no excuse for going around all stank now that they live in the future, so Lily reminds them about it. “Go de-stink yourselves. John, you need to change your sweatshirt too, it's going to start walking around and talking and shit any day now.”

They go and de-stink, and Lily goes to get some coffee.

“You'll stunt your growth,” Steve says when she comes back with it. 

She rolls her eyes. “Steven, I'm seventeen years old, I'm not about to hit some growth spurt.”

He makes the most disgusting I'm-about-to-say-something-funny face she's ever seen in her life.

“Don't you even _make_ that joke about how you got your growth spurt when you were 24, you are _not_ as funny as you think you are,” she says.

Steve says, “But it was going to be really good!”

Mikey starts shoving boxes toward Steve and John. “You guys open your presents first!”

John opens his present from Mikey and Lily. It's five pounds of black licorice, which makes him laugh and hug them for about an hour. Then he eats some of the licorice and opens up his present from Steve and just kind of freezes. 

It's a drawing. A drawing of a woman with dark curly hair, and three little girls, and John, looking all cute and young and old-fashioned in suspenders and a little hat. John runs one finger over the woman's face. “Ma,” he says. “That's. That's my ma.” 

“Yeah,” Steve says. “And your sisters.”

“That's Becca,” John says, and points to the smallest of the girls, then to the other two. “Anne. Janey-girl.” He touches his own face in the picture. “M-m-me.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “That's you, buddy.”

John gives Steve a little kiss, just this kind of TV-parents kiss with no tongue or anything. Lily wants to think it's gross, but instead she just kind of feels all dumb and happy about it. 

“I, uh, got something else for you,” Steve says, and pulls out a little box like the ones jewelry comes in.

Mikey screams.

“Oh, hey, what a f-fuckin' coincidence,” John says, and grabs another jewelry box out from under the tree.

Mikey screams again.

John stares at him. “What's wrong with you?”

Mikey covers his mouth with his hands and shakes his head with his eyes all big. John just kind of shrugs, and he and Steve swap boxes. Steve says, “You first, Buck.”

John opens the box and goes, “Oh.”

Steve looks worried. “I don't mind if you don't – ” 

John is already putting it on. It's a silver chain, and there are two really old looking dog tags attached. John squeezes them in his fist. “How the fuck did you find them?” 

“Natasha found them in an abandoned Hydra base in Austria, about two years back. I, uh.” He swallows. “I wore them every day, for a while.”

John kisses him again, then says, “Open yours.”

Steve does. Inside the box is another silver chain, but this one just has a little silver medal on it. Steve stares at it. “Saint Sebastian.”

“Yeah,” John says. “I thought, uh, maybe you'd like to have it. You had one of those when we were k-k-kids, right?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Yeah. I had Saint John of God.” 

John kind of scratches at the back of his neck. “I figured, you know, Sebastian could help keep an eye out when I can't watch your six for you.”

Steve puts the medal on, then squeezes John so hard that it looks like it hurts. Then Mikey, who just died a little of disappointment that they didn't actually propose to each other, yells, “Steve, open our present!”

Steve does. His present is the biggest most enormous sketchpad they could find at the art supply store. It's kind of a boring present but Steve smiles and smiles and says that he likes it about a million times. John leans closer to Steve's ear. "Wow, lookit that. You won't be able to fill that up in a year."

"Why do you always do that?" Lily says.

John looks up at her. "What? What did I do now?"

"You always talk into his left ear like he's deaf or something," Lily says.

John and Steve look at each other. "I do that? Why the fuck would I do that?" John says.

Steve is smiling all big and goofy. "I never noticed either. That's my good ear, Buck. I mean, uh, both of them are good now. But I got a bad fever when I was nine and came out deaf in the right one. You and my ma were the only two people who always remembered."

John stares at him for a second, then says, "Fuck it," and sits right down in Steve's lap. 

Steve says, "Oh, hey," and blushes, but he doesn't shove John off or anything. Then he says, "Ok, you guys gotta open your stuff now."

Mikey and Lily open their presents. They're like, really nice, which is weird. Their stockings just have little stuff, like candy and nuts and a mango in the toe (Steve says, "I guess oranges aren't so special any more, so I thought maybe you'd like something else better.") Some nerd who is _probably_ Steve has put in a bunch of really old-fashioned candies that they talked about before, like _violet drops_ and stuff. Mikey gets a big book of fashion illustrations from Vogue before they used cameras for everything from Steve, and a day to day calendar of hot gay guys from John, "for you to write your assignments and stuff on so I don't gotta pretend to be normal when your teacher calls asking about your homework." Steve gives Lily a pair of her own boxing gloves, and John gives her this box of special edition Avengers nail polishes that she groans about but secretly really likes. Steve's one has red, white and blue star-shaped sparkles in it. She waves it at John. “I'll do your toes if you do mine.”

“Y-y- _yes_ ,” he says, so they do each other's toenails while Mikey opens up a bunch of presents that are supposed to be for them to _share nicely_ and are mostly candy and books and X-Box games that don't have any violence. Then Steve goes to make brunch and John and Mikey and Lily watch the muppets Christmas Carol on TV. It's fun to watch movies with John because everything confuses him and makes him angry except for the things that make him laugh really hard, and he laughs through almost the whole dumb movie when he isn't saying things like, “Why the fuck is he a f-f- _frog_? It doesn't make any goddamn _sense_!” 

After a while people start showing up. Auntie Huang rolls up first with a bunch of giant tupperwares. John looks all embarrassed when he sees her. “H-hi, boss.”

“Hi yourself, Junkie,” Auntie Huang says. “I'm not your boss anymore. You ran away from the dollar store and never came back, and your husband says that you're hiding from the FBI. You're fired.” She stares at him really hard. “You've gotten fatter. That's good. Soon you'll be as fat as your husband.” Then she goes into the kitchen to bother Steve, because she's the only terrorist on earth who Captain America is afraid of.

Then more people start showing up. Not Sam, because he's an actual normal person with an actual normal family he's having Christmas with. But Natasha, who brings a not very Chistmas-y bottle of vodka and some guy named Clint who looks like he just fell down a staircase or something. Bruce, who is the _Incredible Fucking Hulk_ , shows up with some Bengali desserts, which makes Steve crawl into a weird sad hole of blushing because he totally has a crush on the _Incredible Fucking Hulk_ , and John is just sitting there laughing at him while his toenails dry. 

Auntie Huang and Natasha start folding wontons in the kitchen while drinking something out of coffee mugs that might be coffee with vodka but also might just be vodka. No one can hear what they're talking about but sometimes they both look at Steve or John and then cackle like horrible drunk witches. Then Iron Man shows up with a bunch of whisky and starts poking around in John's arm while they watch some cowboy tv show and do shots every time someone says the word cocksucker until Steve tells them that it's time to eat. Halfway through brunch there's another buzz at the door, and when Steve answers this really nervous voice says, “It's me? Matt?”

A minute later this cute blind guy comes in with a really, really pretty girl who looks like she's about to pass out and die when Steve goes bouncing over like a giant golden retriever to say hi. He's crazy excited to have guests, like Captain America is really good at fighting Nazis but actually just wants to invite a million people to his house so he can try out all of the recipes on his secret Pinterest that no one is supposed to know about (everyone knows about it). Matt looks seriously overwhelmed. “Hi, uh, _Steve_ ,” he says. “This is my friend Karen. We brought champagne and orange juice? For mimosas?”

“It's really just sparkling wine,” Karen says, and then kind of hides her face to protect herself from Steve glowing at her. Steve thanks them all excited and bounces off into the kitchen again, and Karen looks relieved until she notices that there's like a million other superheroes in the room. Iron Man winks at her. 

“Yo, Daredevil!” John says. “Where the fuck's the anonymous citizen?”

“Hi, Bucky!” Matt says, and _oh my God_ , he is seriously, like, John's _fan_ , like you can tell that this dude totally has Bucky Barnes trading cards and shit (they sell _all kinds_ of Bucky Barnes stuff on the internet, some with his real picture and some with his picture from the cartoon where he's a child soldier in some kind of really kinky situation with Captain America, like Steve is always out to _spank_ him and shit. Those cartoons make Steve want to die, so Lily and Mikey are planning on getting one of the pages where he's acting really perverted about Bucky blown up and framed for him). “Foggy's at his grandma's. I'll be sure to tell him that you asked about him, though, he's so mad that he's missing this. Actually, can we do a selfie or something? I really want to rub this in his face as much as possible.”

“That d-depends,” John says. “Can I k-k-kiss you in the selfie?”

“Wait, who are you kissing now?” says Steve, who is wearing an Iron Man apron that Lily's never even _seen_ before, where did that even come from? And anyway that's how Lily has a picture in her phone of Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes kissing Daredevil on each cheek while Iron Man makes a horrible face in the background. 

Lily's family is a bunch of terrible freaks with even worse freaks for friends, but she guesses that's ok, they're kind of fun like that.

*****

Five days after Christmas Steve wakes up and knows that Bucky's gone.

He makes sure anyway, looks in the closets just to make sure Buck isn't hiding in one of them like he does sometimes when he gets overwhelmed. Buck isn't there.

He's just sent a text to all of the Avengers asking if he's with them and is trying to remember how to breathe normally when his phone rings.

“Don't panic,” Tony says. “He's in the Bronx. The address is in your phone already.”

Steve lets himself lean against the wall, and manages, “How?”

“He asked me to microchip him a few weeks back,” Tony says. “You were right about you guys always having a contingency plan, which I would make fun of if it weren't for the fact that the worst case scenario _literally always happens_ to both of you.”

Steve licks his lips. “Speaking of contingency plans,” he says, “I think I need your help with something. Can I come by the Tower some time this week? If you have the time, I mean.”

“For you, Cap? I think I can pencil you in. Tomorrow? Lunch? Sushi? Do you do that? Is it alarming for you? I don't want to alarm you, Cap.”

“I do that,” Steve says. “Thanks, Tony.”

There's a pause. “No problem, Steve.”

 

Steve finds Buck right where Tony's coordinates lead him, down some alley near his old squat. He's hunched up and miserable, staring at a little packet on the ground that Steve kicks out of the way when he goes to crouch next to him. Buck's only wearing a hoodie despite the cold, so Steve takes his coat off and slips it around Buck's shoulders. “Hey, buddy.”

“Hey,” Buck says. “Guess that chip works, huh?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, and just waits for a second.

“I didn't shoot up,” Bucky says. “I don't even have a fucking rig. Guess I'm that much of a d-d-dumb piece of shit.”

“Or you didn't really want to,” Steve says. “Or you were making sure that you wouldn't be able to do it before I came to get you.”

Something flickers across Buck's face. “You came to get me.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, and stands up, holds out his hand. “Come on. Let's go home.”

Outside of the alley the wind is hard and stinging, and Bucky tries to give Steve's coat back. Steve shakes his head and holds it closed around him. “I'm not just letting you be cold, Buck,” he says, and that shocked little look flashes across Bucky's face again, and Steve leans down to kiss him, because after the past few weeks the last thing that anyone needs is another supersoldier bursting into tears.

 

A couple of weeks pass pretty quietly. Steve takes the kids to visit their families in their respective facilities, which goes ok. Lily's abuela is a sweet lady who doesn't seem to remember exactly who Lily is, but is pleased enough to sit quietly with her and have her hand held while they watch telenovelas for an hour or two. Mikey's dad is a small, skinny guy with his son's big gentle eyes and heartbreaker smile. He flinches a little when Steve reaches to shake his hand, which makes Steve immediately want to find the biggest and blondest guy in the place and have a nice little chat. When Mikey comes out with a defensive, “ _I'm gay_ ,” Mr. Johnson says, “Yeah? You dating anyone? If he tries to hurt you you tell him that I'm in for murder and I'm getting out in a month,” which shocks Mikey into just smiling quietly for a while. 

When they leave Steve slips him a business card. “This lawyer – her name's Bernie – I've been talking to her for a while for, uh, personal reasons. If you call her now then it'll give her colleague time to get ready for the next time you go up for parole. It's uh. It's all paid for, if you want the help.”

Mr. Johnson just stares at him. “I'm sorry, sir, but why the hell would you want to get involved with getting some drug dealer paroled?”

Steve sticks his hands in his pockets and hunches his shoulders a little, trying not to loom. “How old were you when you first got in here?”

“Nineteen.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “When I was nineteen I was hauling off and punching guys three times my size for not taking off their hats when they spoke to a lady. A few years after that I was letting the US government do science experiments on me. We all do dumb stuff when we're kids. The only real difference is that my assaulting people and signing up to be a lab rat got me a bunch of medals, and your trying to earn some money got you here.” He swallows. “You don't – who I am. When I came back. I had nothing left. No people. No choices. I guess I just don't like to see that happen to anyone else.”

They just look at each other for a second, two guys who know something about regret. Then Mr. Johnson holds out his hand. They shake, and Mikey's father grins. “Hey, you think you might be able to get Falcon's autograph for me?”

Steve grins back. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I might be able to twist his arm.”

 

It's January 17th, and things are good. Quiet. Calm. Bucky's still all smug with himself over having gotten a kiss off of Sam on New Year's Eve. The kids are back at school and mad about it. Sam's learned how to throw the shield and then catch it again without breaking his wrist. Steve's gone to his first therapy appointment with Sister Mary Elizabeth, who remembers the forties a little and doesn't laugh the first time he says “keen” in front of her and keeps pinning him to the ground and making him explain what he means when he says stuff like “I guess it doesn't matter so much what happens to me if I can keep other people safe.” It's ok, he guesses. He's been trying to convince Bucky that he might like it too – Steve looked through Stark's list of approved therapists and found this older Jewish lady with a really nice smile who's supposed to be a trauma expert. Buck keeps blowing him off, but Steve figures he'll win eventually. He usually does. 

Then one morning Steve gets home at the end of his run and sees a crowd of reporters around his place. That hasn't happened in more than a year – they figured out pretty quickly after he moved in that hounding Captain America at home would get them nothing but furious phone calls from their mothers after he called them out by their full names as “individuals who have continuously disrespected my repeated requests for privacy” in interviews with approved media outlets – and the sight of it sends a sick wave of anxiety through his gut. He picks up the pace and slams right through them, letting them scatter out of the way for a second before they swarm back in again. “Captain Rogers, do you have any comment … ” – “Captain Rogers, can you confirm the authenticity of the photo ... ” 

He slams the door behind him and takes the stairs three at a time, and busts into his apartment to see Buck and the kids gathered silently around the TV. There's a picture on the screen. It's a picture of Steve, his face completely recognizable in profile, leaning down to kiss someone. Bucky's face is barely visible, and the arm is covered by Steve's coat draped around his shoulders, but the bulk of his body and the little patch of stubble visible next to where Steve is cradling his jaw make it very, very obvious that Steve is kissing a man. Giant text on the screen screams, “Captain America Gay?” and smaller text asks “Who is the mystery man?” while a smug looking jerk in a suit reports. “The original photo post on Reddit has already been viewed over one million times, with many commenting on the man's resemblance to Captain Rogers' childhood friend Sergeant James Barnes. Still other commenters have posted side-by-side comparisons of photos of Sergeant Barnes and the mysterious terrorist and vigilante known to New Yorkers as the Revelator, prompting some to ask whether a conspiracy within HYDRA infiltrated government agency SHIELD –” 

Steve mutes the TV. Lily goes to the window and peeks out through the curtains, then comes back looking pale. “Steve, there's like _fifty_ reporters out there.”

Bucky shifts in his chair, and the plates in his arm realign with a nearly inaudible hum. “Wish I could send them p-packing.”

Steve forces a smile and runs a hand over Buck's hair. “I know, buddy,” he says, and makes a phone call.

Tony picks up so quickly that Steve wonders if he's been waiting for the call. "Morning, Norma Rae," he says. "Been watching the news?"

"Yep," says Steve. "Remember our contingency plan?"

"Way ahead of you," Tony says, which is right about when Steve hears the chopper blades.

"Passports?"

"Ready and waiting in the jet," Tony says. "You're Aleksandr and Grant Krovopuskov, by the way. You were married in an intimate ceremony in Vermont three years ago. You're an illustrator and Sasha is a former Navy Seal who lost his arm in Iraq and is currently using a StarkTech prototype prosthetic. Your two adorable foster-to-adopt children are keeping their own first names, since the public isn't aware of them yet. The public which will, by the way, be informed via official Avengers press conference that Captain America has taken an extended leave of absence on the advice of his therapist to attempt to address the lingering effects of the PTSD he developed after witnessing the love of his life, Bucky Barnes, die in action, since the recent speculation about him in the media has been very triggering. Wellwishers are encouraged to donate to the Wounded Warriors project or one of a list of suggested charities for vulnerable LGBT youth. I invented a whole lot of _really cool tech_ to make it look like your chopper is taking you to my place in New Mexico, by the way, so you might want to take a moment to appreciate that as you're whisked away to your new life.”

"Well," Steve says, after a second, "I guess I did say I wanted something splashy enough to take the heat off of the Revelator. Why do I have to take Buck's name, anyhow? I don't think I look like a Krovopuskov."

Buck glances up at that and grins, looking puzzled about what's going on but entertained by it anyway. Steve smiles down at him and rubs his shoulder a little with one hand.

“I don't know, it seems like the kind of decision you made as a whole rainbow family. You probably held a meeting about it, passed the talking stick and everything."

Mikey screams, "Oh my god, it's like Black Hawk Down up in here right now!"

Tony says, "My pilot's telling me he's on the roof. Time to load up the skittles, Cap; I'm getting the cold chills that I get whenever Christine Everheart starts closing in. So where to you want to go? Montenegro? Marrakech? North Africa is a nice traditional choice for spies and fugitives, I'll bet that murdertroyshka would really enjoy lurking in a souk."

Steve looks toward the kids, catches their eyes, and winks to let them know that everything's ok. He reaches for Bucky's metal hand and gives it a squeeze. He smiles.

He says, "I've heard that Bali's great this time of year."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference reference:
> 
> 1\. Chapter title is, of course, a Tupac song: Bucky listens to it way back in chapter one.
> 
> 2\. Bucky and Tony are playing a drinking game to Deadwood that would probably get them both completely wasted in about 20 minutes.

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